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No ' 77 j APPLETONS’ 

Town and Country Library 

PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY July 25, 1891 $ 1 oT 6 o~p"eR ANNUwT 

-■;iiBn, M ii«ii:BniBi|!Mn. Hii'B-ilM, ■ MU'M'. ;B:: M, ;! g|, a, IB:!;^,, M . j'li 

Maid Marian 

And Other Stories 


By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL 

AUTHOR OF THROCKMORTON, LITTLE JARVIS, Etc. 



ENTERED AT THE P OST-OFFICE AT NEW YORK AS SECOND-CLASS MAIL MATTER 

D. APPLETON & CO., NEW YORK 


a 


MISS SEAWELL’S BOOKS. 


THROCKMORTON 

A novel presenting a strong study of contrasting characters, by an 
author intimately acquainted with her scene and background — the 
Virginia of the years immediately following the war. Paper, 50 
cents ; specially bound in cloth, $1.00. 

“ The incidents are of great interest, well-imagined, and admirably carried out. 
But the notable feature of the book is the rare charm of its literary expression. 
The language is full of grace and wit and delicate sensibility. To read is. to be 
beguiled.” — New York Sun. 

“ The pages of 1 Throckmorton ’ are alive with picturesque sketches. Its humor 
is never forced, and its pathos is never overdone. It is a novel to linger over.” — 
The Critic. 

‘‘A charming story. The author has used good English, and the reader yields 
to the fascination of her style.” — The Book Buyer. 

“There are many quaintly humorous touches, chief among them the terrible 
frankness of the delightful old Mrs. Sherrard. The pathos is simple and sincere. 
Temple Freke is as real and as fascinating a personage as has sauntered into litera- 
ture for many a day. Daring flashes of unconventional common-sense wait to sur- 
prise the reader on dozens of pages.” — Boston Transcript. 

‘ ' Strong in motive, and equally strong in conception and construction. The 
author’s style is charmingly easy, and the story is altogether delightful.”— Bos- 
ton Tunes. 

“ ‘Throckmorton’ seems to be the product of a writer so rich in resources of 
character, motives, and localities, that a restraining hand is ever apparent.” — St. Paul 
Pioneer-Press. 

“ Altogether, one of the ablest of the Town and Country Library.”— Montreal 
Gazette. 

LITTLE JARVIS. 

The story of the heroic midshipman of the frigate Constellation. The 
second of the Youth's Companion prize stories. Illustrated by J. O. 
Davidson and George Wharton Edwards. 8vo. Cloth, with specially 
designed cover, $1.00. 

“ Miss Seawell owns a very capable and a very delicate pen.”— New York Sun. 

“The little book is one of the very best the season has brought us P— Detroit 
Free Press. 

“A pathetic, charming tale. ‘Little Jarvis’ will thrill many a boy’s heart 
. . .” — Brooklyn Standard-Union. 

“The story of the heroism and death of Little Jarvis will thrill the heart of 
every reader.” — Boston Home Journal. 


For sale by all booksellers, or -will be sent by mail on receipt of price by the publishers, 

D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York* 


MAID MARIAN 


AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 

MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL 

AUTHOR OF THROCKMORTON, LITTLE JARVIS, ETC. 



Copyright, 1891, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 


Maid Marian 
Little Missy 

The Sea Fortunes of Dicky 
The Kourasoffs . 

A Virginia Colonel 
The Valbella Brothers 
Theodora . 

Tubal the Fiddler 

Priscilla 

Kaintuck 


PAGE 

• • • .5 

• 43 

Carew . . .57 

. . . . 80 

. . . . 109 

. . . . 129 

. . . . 151 

. . . . 183 

. . . . 198 

o • • • 220 


































































































* 












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. 









































MAID MARIAN. 


Yes, it was surely the embodiment of feminine 
beauty — the dark, narrow-lidded eyes, wide apart 
— did you ever notice the terrible intelligence in 
the eyes of a portrait ? — the slim patrician nose, 
the hair so quaintly coifed with pearl, the uplifted 
hand : no wonder that Macfarren gazed at it with 
something like reverence. You will be apt to im- 
agine that Macfarren was an enthusiast, possibly 
with darkly curling hair and of a Byronic-Dantesque 
cast of countenance. Quite the contrary. He 
was a keen-witted, hard-headed New York lawyer 
fast galloping out of his forties — a well-made, well- 
dressed man, with a clear-cut, sensible face. His 
hair had been trifled with by the hand of Time, 
and what remained is not worth describing. 

Nor was the place sanctified by the lady 
Marian’s portrait a Norman abbey, nor yet a bat- 
tlemented castle. It was a room sliced off from 
the place where the housemaids kept their brooms 
and dust-pans on the third floor of a New York 
hotel. Macfarren had kept those rooms for twenty 
years. Meanwhile, bachelors’ flats had sprung up 
all over town, but he was conservative and kept 


6 


MAID MARIAN. 


his modest suite of two rooms until the advent of 
the Lady Marian made another room a necessity. 
For the portrait was so large — a full-length — and 
so conspicuous that it would have monopolized 
the whole of the cosey sitting-room. Besides, 
Macfarren had a — superstition, perhaps — some- 
thing about the portrait which made him shrink 
from exposing it to the vulgar gaze of the waiters 
and bell-boys who saw the inside of his room, and 
the jokes — how he would have chafed under them! 
— of the good fellows who came in occasionally 
for a quiet smoke and chat. 

It seemed as if Destiny had had a share in giv- 
ing to him the Lady Marian. Some years before, 
loitering in England, he had wandered into King’s 
Lyndon, an old show-place in one of the midland 
counties and had seen this picture. It made a 
strange impression on him; and he was singularly 
unsusceptible to anything but ideas: they always 
impressed him tremendously. He was surprised 
and almost ashamed of the hold this face took 
upon him. He carried it in his mind through 
fifteen years, and once or twice when he had been 
arguing a case before a learned judge the sedate, 
black figure on the bench had become Lady Marian, 
resplendent in white and pearls, and he had ex- 
perienced a queer sensation as if he were pleading 
his cause to her instead of to the honorable court. 
And the other day on a flying trip to London he 
had suddenly come across her in an auction-room 
where a sale of antiques and curios was going on, 
and, with a recklessness entirely foreign to his 


MAID MARIAN. 


7 


natural conservatism, he had bought her at a 
high figure — bought his divinity of fifteen years 
for hard cash. He had also hired a room for her, 
and, coming home to dinner on this particular 
evening, when, for the first time she hung in beauty 
on his walls, he entered the place made glorious 
by her presence, and, carefully closing the door 
after him, stood in homage before her. He had 
been smoking, but an instinctive reverence made 
him remove his cigar from his lips. He looked 
long and steadily. This picture had helped him to 
understand himself. Would he have otherwise 
known that under this cool exterior, this nature so 
distinctly intellectual, existed a sentiment so deep, 
so strong, so romantic ? It came home to him that 
he was very like those old pagans who first took 
statues as their symbols and then came to worship 
the symbols. Then he looked into the eyes, and 
presently the eyes looked at him, loftily, yet npt 
unkindly. And then — ah ! sweet, strange, deli- 
cious moment — the lips parted into a dazzling 
smile! 

Macfarren, moving mechanically like a sleep- 
walker, picked up a small lighted lamp from a 
table near, although the gas in a gaudy chandelier 
flared- brightly above him, and examined the pict- 
ure. He put the lamp down carefully. He was 
a member of the Nineteenth Century Club, and 
had heard some queer talk about psychology and 
theosophy which had impressed him as being 
rather more baseless and extravagant than Jack 
and the Bean-stalk. What, then, was this? He 


8 


MAID MARIAN. 


walked rapidly into the outer sitting-room, locked 
the door, and returned. And there, sitting grace- 
fully upright in a chair, was the Lady Marian. 

Something common to worshipers in all ages 
happened to Macfarren. He fell on his knees. 
Lady Marian seemed in no wise disconcerted, and, 
leaning forward, held out her hand. Macfarren 
kissed passionately the warm pink palm. 

“Friend,” said she, in a soft and composed 
voice, “ how came I hither ? ” 

The question confused Macfarren hopelessly. 
He dared not tell her that he had bought her— 
that she came in a box which was opened in the 
custom-house, and that he had paid a thirty-per- 
cent ad valorem duty on her. He was inexpert as 
a liar, although quick at diplomacy. He could 
only murmur, after an awkward pause, “ I do not 
know.” 

“The last thing I remember,” said Marian, 
looking around the unfamiliar room with calmly 
inquisitive eyes, “ was a ball at Kenilworth, whither 
I went with Lady Stukely. My Lord of Leicester 
told me that our sovereign lady Queen Bess had 
signified that she would not excuse me from my 
turn of duty as bed-chamber-woman ; and then he 
drank to my success at court in red wine, and I 
drank too. And I was moderate — I only drank two 
small flagons of red wine, a tankard of sack, and 
one poor half-gallon of good mulled ale.” 

Lady Marian uttered this quite composedly, 
but to say that Macfarren was completely staggered 
is hardly putting it strong enough, particularly as 


MAID MARIAN. 


9 

she finished up by adding with an air of charming 
modesty, “ I was too bashful to take more ! ” 

Macfarren gasped as he looked at her, but if 
she had told him that she had drank a brewery dry, 
it could not have dissolved the instant magic charm 
that her grace and beauty had laid softly upon 
him. In fact his only comment when the Lady 
Marian looked at him inquiringly, as if to ask his 
opinion, was — 

“ That's little enough, Lady Marian, if one is 
thirsty.” 

This astounding fib did not seem to strike Lady 
Marian as a fib at all, and she only asked eagerly : 

“ Think you the wine was drugged ? ” 

Having entered on his career as a liar, there 
was now no retreat for Macfarren. Moreover, he 
was really at a loss for opinions, and his only re- 
source was to lie, promptly, thoroughly, and con- 
sistently. 

“I think not,” he replied, humbly. “A lady of 
rank would scarcely be so treated in the house of 
her friends, and besides,” he added, with the men- 
dacity of a man in love. “ You drank so little — not 
more than a gallon altogether.” 

Marian’s countenance assumed a look of gen- 
uine relief. 

“ They would hardly dare to play so scurvy a 
trick on the daughter of Lord Howard de Winstan- 
ley. And, although I have heard dark tales of 
what was done to Amy Robsart — thou dost know 
Amy, the daughter of Sir John Robsart of Cumnor 
Hall?” 


IO 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ I have heard of her,” replied Macfarren, and, 
his self-possession returning, 'he added, boldly, 
“ through Sir Walter Scott of Abbotsford.” 

“ Of what shire, pr’ythee ? ” asked Marian. 

Macfarren had not practiced law at the New 
York bar for twenty years without being able to 
extricate himself from a tight place. He really 
could not recall for the moment what county in 
Scotland held Abbotsford, but he replied, at a vent- 
ure : 

“ In Perthshire. Have you never heard of Mel- 
rose Abbey, near Jedburgh ? ” 

Marian shook her head and glanced at Macfar- 
ren with something like scorn in her clear eyes. 

“ I belike me not of the Scotch. It is a false 
and treacherous race, they say. They come to 
England and tell us they have noble castles and 
stately manor-houses in Scotland, and, forsooth, 
they are nothing more than hovels and swine- 
herds’ cottages. The Abbotsford of which Sir 
Walter told thee is like enough a huntsman’s 
lodge.” 

“ Indeed it is not,” said Macfarren, earnestly. 
“ It is a magnificent baronial hall. I have been 
there myself, and,” he added, feeling obliged to 
say something in defense of Sir Walter Scott’s 
character, “ Sir Walter is a — er — a most respecta- 
ble person.” 

“ ’Tis likely,” replied Lady Marian, half scorn- 
fully, “ and this Abbotsford, no doubt, is well fur- 
nished with household stuff he ravaged from Eng- 
lish homes over the border. I think I have heard 


MAID MARIAN. 


II 


of him — and that he is but little better than a bor- 
der ruffian.” 

Macfarren, seeing it was impossible to rehabili- 
tate Sir Walter’s character, wisely refrained from 
further efforts in that direction. 

“ Thou art an Englishman, I see,” she said, after 
a moment, “ although thy speech is not like that 
about King’s Lyndon. Mayhap thou art from Lon- 
don. Thy sober dress makes me think thou art 
from the Middle Temple.” 

This was extremely fortunate for Macfarren, 
who feared at every moment she would discover he 
was not of noble blood, and that therefore he 
should be scorned of her. 

“Iam a barrister,” he answered eagerly. 

Marian smiled sweetly : “ Some ladies of rank 

contemn lawyers for mere clerks and scriveners, 
but my father, the Lord Howard de Winstanley, 
tells me that at court, Queen Bess doth treat them 
like lords and gentlemen — and, although they rank 
not with the nobility, yet are they equal with the 
gentry and the churchmen. Hast thou been to 
London ever ? ” 

“ I was there only three weeks ago,” said Mac- 
farren promptly. 

Marian’s eyes sparkled. “ How doth the queen? 
Didst thou go to court ? Are the ruffs and fardin- 
gales as huge as ever ? How of my Lord Essex, 
in Ireland ? ” 

“ The queen was very well,” said Macfarren. 

“ Where didst thou see her ? ” demanded Mari- 
an, before Macfarren, who was about to give her 


12 


MAID MARIAN. 


an account of the Earl of Essex’s adventures in 
Ireland, could add a word. 

“ In — in Westminster Abbey,” said Macfarren 
lamely. This was a wretched subterfuge, but it sat- 
isfied Marian, who exclaimed : 

“ And who attended her ? Was it at nooning or 
evening service ? And has she aged, as much I 
fear she hath ? ” 

“ She looked just as she has for a long, long 
time, ever since I first saw her,” said he, desper- 
ately. Clearly, she would ask embarrasing ques- 
tions. “ But,” he added, artfully, “ I was not pre- 
sented to her, nor did she even honor me with a 
glance.” 

Marian smiled : “ Poor queen ! her eyesight 

doth somewhat fail. But, friend, what is thy name ? 
and is there no entertainment to be had here ? ” 

Macfarren had never before been ashamed of 
his name, but he wished he could have said he was 
a Cecil, a Fairfax, a Beauclerk, or any other proud 
Elizabethan name. He could only say, with a kind 
of proud humility : 

“ My name is Macfarren, and I and all that is 
mine are at your service.” 

“Well said!” cried Marian. “But tell me, 
whose roof doth now shelter me ? Whose house is 
this ? ” 

“ It is an ho — an inn,” answered Macfarren. 

“ And a good hostelry, I do think,” said Marian, 
glancing around, “ though not like the inns of Suf- 
folk. But, since thou wast in London lately, we 
can not be far from there.” 


MAID MARIAN. 


13 

‘‘Only seven days,” replied Macfarren, with 
nervous audacity. 

“But seven days! Then can my father come 
for me, if thou wilt send a messenger by post ! ” 

“ Indeed I will,” responded Macfarren, with a 
sinking heart and a guilty conscience as he uttered 
this last colossal falsehood. 

“ And now,” said Marian, as if entirely satisfied 
with the proposed arrangement, “ let us see what 
victual mine host can provide. Beshrew me if I 
have tasted aught since we dined, at an hour before 
noon.” 

Macfarren looked furtively at his watch. It was 
half-past six — just his dinner-hour. It would be 
easy enough to take Marian down to dinner, if he 
could get one of the score of pleasant married 
women in the hotel with whom he was on friendly 
terms to go with her; and, although it is always 
awkward to suggest a chaperon to a girl, yet it 
must be done. 

“We will go to the dining-room immediately. 
But I must secure a chaperon for you. That would 
be necessary, you know, to prevent talk,” said 
Macfarren. 

“A chaperon?” asked Marian, wonderingly. 
“ Is it a head-covering, lest the wind should rumple 
my coif ? Or is it one of the new coaches brought 
from France, in which I hear the nobility take the 
air ? ” 

“It is neither,” answered Macfarren, feeling 
anxious that no objection should be made to the 
arrangement. “It is a married lady to attend 


14 


MAID MARIAN. 


you — ” He halted, but Marian took it up at 

once. 

“ A lady-in-waiting, meanest thou ? If she is of 
suitable rank I shall be well pleased. At King’s 
Lyndon I had two damsels, daughters of knights, 
to wait on my pleasure. Whom wilt have to at- 
tend me ? ” 

Macfarren went through with a rapid mental 
calculation. A brilliant idea suddenly came to him. 
Mrs. Dietrick Van Tromp, one of the most dis- 
tinguished women of New York society, had come 
to the hotel for a few days while her Fifth Avenue 
mansion was in the hands of the decorators. He 
knew her, and knew her weakness for the English 
aristocracy. She dearly loved a lord, and, next to 
that, any member of a peer’s family. So, after an 
instant’s thought, he responded : 

“ I’ll get Mrs. Dietrick Van Tromp.” 

Marian seemed anything but struck by the 
name. 

“And who is Dame Van Tromp?” she de- 
manded, haughtily. 

Macfarren was a brave man, but at that he 
quaked. Mrs. Dietrick Van Tromp’s husband was 
a silent partner in one of the greatest silk-import- 
ing firms in New York, and, although Mrs. Van 
Tromp considered the fact that her husband’s name 
did not appear in the firm-name relieved him from 
the stigma of work, yet it would be hard to make 
that nice distinction clear to Marian. So, after an 
uneasy pause, Macfarren could only blurt out : 

“ She is the wife of a silk-merchant.” 


MAID MARIAN. 


15 

Lady Marian surveyed him with a wide-eyed 
amazement, not unmixed with contempt. 

“A mercer’s wife to attend the daughter of 
Lord Howard de Winstanley ? Nay, hadst thou 
not better call the kitchen scullion to keep her 
company ? Friend, I like thee well, but I fear thou 
art a stranger to good company.” 

Macfarren, thoroughly abashed, remained silent, 
while a burning blush came to his face. The un- 
merited scorn of this lovely girl was hard to bear. 

“ Dost thou not know some one of rank to keep 
me company?” she asked, presently, with some 
petulance. 

Macfarren ran hastily over in his mind a half- 
dozen names of the wives of titled and untitled 
Englishmen then in New York whom he had met in 
society. No, none of them would do ; and, besides, 
he could not take the liberty. 

“ Dear lady,” he said, after an embarrassed 
pause, “ I myself am a commoner. I have no title 
except that of a gentleman and an honest man. I 
can not stoop to ask favors of those with whom my 
acquaintance is but slight. I offer you the protec- 
tion of people like myself. You will not want for 
respect among them.” 

At this Marian jumped up with the greatest ani- 
mation. “ Now, by my faith, I see thou art truly a 
gentleman, no matter what thy birth may be ; for 
birth is but an accident. But honor, wisdom, and 
valor are no accidents. Nor is that noble science, 
the art of being a gentleman, an accident, and, 
although I will not go with the mercer’s wife, yet 


1 6 


MAID MARIAN. 


will I go alone with thee — for I see thou art both 
learned and polite; and look you, friend, for all 
that I value my place, I esteem honor, wisdom, and 
valor more than anything else in the world." And 
then, laughing, she added, “ Hunger doth pinch me, 
and thou must take me quickly to the banqueting- 
hall to appease this gnawing." 

Macfarren smiled too. A nature so noble as 
hers could easily cast aside the fetters of conven- 
tional rank. She evidently believed in the great 
republic of merit, although she could not formulate 
her belief. She rose and moved gracefully forward 
to the door which Macfarren held open respectfully 
for her. As she passed by him into the clearer 
light of the little drawing-room and the brilliant 
corridor beyond, he received a kind of electric 
shock at her extreme loveliness. She wore a trail- 
ing gown of brocaded satin, and her long hanging 
sleeves were lined with crimson velvet and trimmed 
with swan’s-down. A mighty ruff encircled her 
neck, and her hair was curiously arranged with 
pearls. Her slender hands were crossed before her. 
As she stepped out in the hall she noticed the car- 
pet, which had escaped her observation before. 
She started back. 

“ What ! dost thou lay fine cloths upon the floor 
instead of rushes ? I would like to have a gown of 
this rich stuff when I go to court. Canst thou not 
buy me enough for a train, or even a petticoat ? " 

“ Certainly, with pleasure," said Macfarren. 

“ But will it not cost a prince’s ransom ? " cried 
Marian, anxiously, stooping down and picking up a 


MAID MARIAN. 


1 7 


small rug that lay before the door. “ Think how 
my lady Stukely would fume if she saw me with a 
petticoat of this queenly stuff.” 

She held the rug up before her in admiration, 
but, as if suddenly ashamed of her childishness, 
dropped it and walked rapidly down the corridor, 
Macfarren keeping at her side. Macfarren knew 
but little of the dress of women, and, having seen 
many startling costumes in New York society of late 
years, flattered himself that his companion’s guise 
was not much out of the ordinary run. But his 
illusion vanished when Mrs. Dietrick Van Tromp 
swept out, gorgeous in dinner-dress, from a door 
opening on the corridor. He saw at once that she 
was stricken with surprise, and, as she bowed to him, 
her eyes asked, expressively : 

“ Who is she ? ” 

Nor was Marian one whit less impressed with 
the descendant of the Knickerbockers. She gave 
one comprehensive glance of admiration, and whis- 
pered hurriedly to Macfarren : 

“ What noble dame is that ? ” 

Macfarren felt a certain malicious pleasure as 
he answered, sotto voce : 

“That is Mrs. Dietrick Van Tromp, the lady 
who I suggested should attend you to the table.” 

Marian’s countenance changed to one of angry 
and amazed disgust. 

“ If mercers’ wives dress thus, how can they be 
told from queens and princesses ? ” she inquired, 
haughtily. 

“They can’t,” responded Macfarren, “except 


i8 


MAID MARIAN. 


that queens and princesses are usually much less 
toploftical.” 

“ But,” demanded Marian, “ are there not sumpt- 
uary laws that forbid the daughters of tradesmen 
and merchants from wearing stuffs reserved for the 
nobility and gentry ? ” 

“ There has been a very strong effort to pass 
sumptuary laws in Ohio and Georgia and Maine 
and Kansas, but they have generally proved inop- 
erative,” answered Macfarren. Seeing, however, his 
Companion’s puzzled look, he hastened forward and 
said, “ Ah ! there is the elevator.” 

Mrs. Van Tromp had preceded them, and stood 
by the door. As Marian and Macfarren approached, 
the former gave her a look of unmistakable disdain, 
which, to Macfarren’s horror, was supplemented by 
a command given in a clear and self-possessed 
voice : 

“ Give place, madam.” 

Mrs. Van Tromp made no reply, but glanced, 
stupefied for a moment, at Macfarren, who turned 
pale and then red. A flush rose to her face, and, 
without replying, she turned half around from 
Marian and rang the bell again. 

The elevator then appeared at the top of the 
opening, and slowly descended. 

Marian’s look of scorn and disdain gradually 
changed to one of genuine alarm. She clutched 
Macfarren nervously by the arm. Her breath came 
in short, quick gasps, and as the elevator boy threw 
the sliding door open she almost shrieked. Mrs. 
Van Tromp, without noticing either Macfarren or his 


MAID MARIAN. 


19 

Companion, calm as if nothing out of the common 
run had occurred, stepped in and began coolly ar- 
ranging a stray lock of her hair before the mirrors 
with which the elevator was lined. The boy wait- 
ed, the rope in his hand, looking impatiently at Mac- 
farren. A lucky idea flew into Macfarren’s mind. 

“ If you don’t get in, she’ll think you are afraid,” 
he whispered. 

The effect was magical. Marian raised her love- 
ly, proud head and stepped gingerly in, the boy 
shut the door with a loud whack, and, with a vicious 
pull at the rope, they began to descend. Macfarren 
saw, however, by the tightly compressed lips and 
the hands fiercely clinched to prevent their trem- 
bling, that Marian was suffering all the tortures of 
a proud soul in a paroxysm of fear. Surreptitious- 
ly he saw her make the sign of the cross on her 
breast. He dared not address Mrs. Van Tromp, 
who, though blandness itself in her air and coun- 
tenance, yet, indicated dangerous possibilities; so 
to all three the ride was uncomfortable and the at- 
mosphere surcharged with electricity. 

The elevator stopped at the door of the dining- 
room. This opened on a broad, square corridor, red- 
carpeted, the lofty ceiling and walls elaborately fres- 
toed. The dining-room itself was a noble apartment, 
seating five hundred persons, blazing from end to 
end with crystal chandeliers which were reflected 
in great mirrors placed at intervals. It was full of 
that subtile flavor of luxury peculiar to the best 
American hotels. The broad doorway, with its 
folding leaves wide open, was guarded by a mag- 


20 


MAID MARIAN. 


nificent person who looked like a major-general in 
plain clothes, but who was really the head waiter; 
and from within this huge doorway poured a flood 
of warm light, of soft chatter, of delicious and en- 
ticing odors. 

But here a terrible development seemed likely 
to occur. Mrs. Van Tromp, with a slight and su- 
percilious inclination of her head, was about to 
step out, as the elevator-boy flung the door open 
with a bang. 

But Marian w f as too adroit for her. With an 
indescribably quick and graceful motion she too 
made for the door. The elevator-boy, with a de- 
lighted grin, gave way for the two ladies. He hoped 
to witness one of those feminine wrangles which 
sometimes vary the monotony of hotel life. The 
two ladies stood up boldly facing each other. 
Marian spoke first. 

“ Madam, what may your name be ? ” 

Mrs. Van Tromp paused for a moment. Should 
she reply to her or not ? But a glance at the 
beauty and undeniable elegance of the new-comer, 
and a knowledge of Macfarren’s position in the 
world, seemed to determine that the enemy before 
her was worthy of her steel. So she replied, in her 
stateliest manner : 

“ I am not aware of any obligation that I am 
under to tell you my name ; but, if it affords you 
any peculiar pleasure, I will say that I am Mrs. 
Dietrick Van Tromp. Now, will you be good 
enough to let me pass ? ” 

“ Nay, are you not a silk-merchant’s wife, 


MAID MARIAN. 


21 


madam ? ” asked Marian, holding her ground 
stoutly. 

An angry blush rose to Mrs. Van Tromp’s 
cheek. This was clearly unendurable. 

“ I am. Nor have I ever had occasion to blush 
for any of my husband’s commercial transactions ; 
and I insist ” (in the tone of “ I command ”) “ that 
you let me pass.” 

“ Let you pass before the daughter of Lord 
Howard de Winstanley ? Madam, if even for the 
sake of blessed peace let you pass, would I not 
do my lineage wrong, my order wrong ? Is not the 
law of precedence well fixed ? Good lack ! when 
peddlers’ wives take the way of peers' daughters, 
then will there be fine coil.” 

Mrs. Van Tromp started back as if she had been 
shot. She turned to Macfarren with a look which 
said, “Explain.” Macfarren saw the road to peace 
open. 

“ May I present to you the Lady Marian de Win- 
stanley, of King’s Lyndon, in Suffolk?” Feeling 
obliged to say something more, he added, “ The 
Lady Marian is unused to our methods, and — a — 
does not fully — ” 

But Mrs. Van Tromp relieved him of the embar- 
rassment of proceeding further. She held out her 
hand to Marian with a brilliant smile. “ How am I 
to apologize ? ” she said. “ I didn’t comprehend. 
How rude you must have thought me ! Of course 
Lady Marian could not be expected to understand 
our methods.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Marian, with beautiful condescen- 


22 


MAID MARIAN. 


sion, “ although our ways differ, I make no doubt 
that humble folk have as many sterling virtues as 
the nobility and gentry." 

“Yes," said Mrs. Van Tromp, thinking her new 
acquaintance’s remark included herself, Mrs. Van 
Tromp, among the gentry anyhow. “ Of course we 
are very new, and society, outside of a small set in 
New York and a few families at Newport, is crude. 
Fortunately, here we have an old Knickerbocker 
circle — " 

“ Knicker — what ? " asked Lady Marian, some- 
what saucily. 

“ Bocker," answered Mrs. Van Tromp, affably. 
“ Knickerbocker : The old Dutch families. We 
try to keep to ourselves as much as possible — 
and we have the Associationofcolonialdamesthe- 
daughtersoftheAmericanrevolution — " Mrs. Van 
Tromp rattled this and several other names off 
volubly, although she had heretofore maintained a 
carefully acquired English slowness of speech, and 
wound up with — 

“ But unluckily, we have no hereditary nobil- 
ity." 

“Yet," responded Marian, “you do ape us won- 
derfully well. I have not seen many mercers’ wives 
who looked the noble dame like you.” 

Mrs. Van Tromp did not know whether to be 
pleased or not with this remark ; but it is hard to 
fall out with peers’ daughters, and, besides, from 
Lady Marian’s occasional use of “ thee ’’ and 
“ thou " she rashly assumed that she was one of 
the dozen or so members of the society of Friends 


MAID MARIAN. 


23 


in the English Peerage, and she knew plain speak- 
ing was a characteristic of the Friends. So she 
only laughed brightly and said : 

“ You’ll certainly take the pas now.” 

Lady Marian, nothing loath, stepped out of the 
elevator. 

Mrs. Van Tromp turned to whisper to Macfar- 
ren, “ So charming ! So unique ! I declare, I knew 
her to be a person of high rank the very moment 
I saw her. And wasn’t it kind of her to ex- 
cuse my rudeness ? Pray add your apologies to 
mine.” 

Macfarren, with a sardonic grin, agreed. 

They were now standing in the corridor. A 
dozen or more men were passing back and forth, 
giving their hats and coats to the young man who 
presided over the shelf-like arrangement of such 
articles, stopping to chat with one another, and all 
gazing with unfeigned admiration at Macfarren’s 
companion. He nodded to them carelessly, while 
Mrs. Van Tromp carefully avoided seeing them, 
especially those who came suspiciously near her. 
She meant to monopolize this precious scion of the 
nobility herself. Already before her delighted vision 
came the dream of a visit to King’s Lyndon, and 
the charms of her next season in London. Four 
times had she crossed the ocean in vain, and never 
had she been able to get presented at court ; but 
this lucky accident might do the whole business for 
her. 

“ My friend,” said Marian, turning to Macfar- 
ren, “ I would not thou shouldst think me fearful, — 


24 


MAID MARIAN. 


my grandsire drew a mighty bow at Bosworth Field, 
and none of my race have a drop of craven blood, 
— but I feared me yon contrivance was something 
supernatural. Tell me, was there anything of the 
black art in it ? I made me the sign of the cross, 
that doth keep devils at bay ; but the thing I saw 
was marvelous/' 

“ It is perfectly right,” said Macfarren, glad to 
relieve her. “ It was all done with a rope and 
pulley. But let us go in to dinner.” 

“ Thou shalt walk by my side,” said Marian to 
Mrs. Van Tromp. “ Thou seest I am not always 
the proud creature thou took’st me for.” 

The association with the great had its disad- 
vantages, thought Mrs. Van Tromp as she accepted 
this gracious condescension, but its advantages 
were too obvious to be overlooked. So, with much 
satisfaction, she supported Marian on the left, 
while Macfarren walked by her on the right. Mari- 
an took an opportunity to whisper to Macfarren, 
“ I tolerate her only for your sake,” in a tone 
which made him thrill with delight. 

At the doorway the head-waiter saluted them 
with a profound bow. Marian stopped short, and, 
carefully disposing of her train, made in return a 
courtesy so deep and so graceful that every eye 
was turned on her. As they passed on, she said, 
“ I know neither the name nor the rank of the 
person I courtesied to, but I am sure he hath an 
air of breeding.” 

When they entered the room everybody's at- 
tention was fixed upon them. Marian bore the 


MAID MARIAN. 


25 


scrutiny with perfect composure. Like all truly 
beautiful women, she seemed superbly unconscious 
of it, and, as she swept with majestic grace toward 
the upper part of the room, Macfarren glowed 
with pride at presenting so much dignity and love- 
liness to an admiring world. When they reached 
Mrs. Van Tromp’s table, that lady gave unmis- 
takable signs of a willingness to leave her own 
table for the privilege of dining with Lady Marian 
and Macfarren ; but Macfarren, albeit the most 
courteous of men, had a fund of polite resolution 
that had more than once brought Mrs. Van Tromp 
and other grand dames to bay. He meant to have 
a tete-a-tete with Marian : so, with consummate tact, 
he managed to leave Mrs. Van Tromp in the lurch 
and to take his seat with Marian at a table at the 
very top of the room. He had a design in this 
which quickly bore fruit. Marian remarked with 
pleasure that the top of the room was given her 
without dissent. There was no one at the table 


except themselves. 

When they were seated, and the waiter had 
handed them each a menu card, Macfarren ob- 
served that Marian was deeply puzzled by hers. 

“ What may this mean ? ” she asked. “ It is 
not English, nor French, nor Latin, although it 
doth somewhat resemble all three. Or is it, she 
asked, archly, “ a madrigal writ in my honor ? ” 

“No,” said Macfarren, smiling; “although, if 
one could write at all, one might be inspired by 
such a theme.” 

It was aji old, old compliment, but it was evi- 


26 


MAID MARIAN. 


dently new to Marian, who smiled, and said, “ Thou 
hast a dainty wit.” 

Macfarren concluded not to trouble her about 
the menu , as she probably knew nothing about it : 
so he beckoned to the waiter, and said, “Turtle- 
soup for both.” The waiter vanished. 

Marian had not ceased to gaze about her with 
an air of surprised admiration. 

“ Never saw I so line an hostelry before,” said 
she. “ Art thou not deceiving me, and is not this 
the house of some feudal prince ? ” 

“ Indeed it is not,” replied Macfarren, earnestly. 
“It is nothing but an inn, I assure you.” 

“And all these gayly-costumed people — are 
they not persons of consideration ?” 

“ Some of them are,” answered Macfarren, “but 
most of them are merchants and traders.” 

Just then the waiter brought a tiny silver- 
plated tureen of soup and set it down before them. 
At that moment Macfarren caught sight of Mrs. 
Van Tromp at the next table but one, who smiled 
coquettishly at him and held up a glass of red 
wine in expressive pantomime. But, while he was 
watching her, he saw a sudden change come over 
her face — a look of paralyzed astonishment : she 
sat, her hand holding the wineglass suspended in 
the air, a silhouette, motionless against the back- 
ground, and rigid with amazement. Macfarren 
turned to his companion, and saw at once. Marian 
had raised the tureen to her dainty mouth, and 
was drinking the turtle-soup without the formality 
of a soup-plate or a tablespoon. 


MAID MARIAN. 


27 


Macfarren was of a nature too loyal to see 
anything to excite mirth in this unexpected breach 
of custom in the woman he had loved for fifteen 
years: he only felt a blind and furious anger 
against those who might make her a subject of 
ridicule. Marian, however, had no suspicion of 
what was passing in his mind, but, after draining 
the tureen, set it down with a sigh of satisfaction, 
saying, “ By my faith, that was a royal dish of 
broth." 

Mrs. Van Tromp’s horrified amazement was 
bad enough, but when Macfarren turned and saw 
James, his waiter for ten years, heretofore a model 
of gravity and discreetness, with his mouth stretched 
from ear to ear convulsed with silent laughter, he 
could scarcely refrain from braining him with the 
water-decanter before him. In an instant James 
saw the dangerous look in Macfarren’s eye, and, 
as if by magic, his countenance assumed its look 
of wonted stolidity, but not until Macfarren had 
hissed at him, in an aside, “ Confound your infernal 
insolence, if you smile again I’ll break every bone 
in your rascally body.” James was an arrant 
coward, and not a tremor appeared upon the 
placid surface of his countenance during the rest 
of the dinner — not even when he handed Macfar- 
ren a card from Mrs. Van Tromp, on which was 
scrawled, “ Quite unconventional, but so high-bred” 

Then came the ordering of The dinner. Mac- 
farren, without consulting his vis-a-vis , did it all. 
He did not bother with the entries, but required 
plain roast beef, potatoes, and plum-pudding. 


28 


MAID MARIAN. 


Meanwhile Marian continued to gaze around 
with delight. Macfarren felt at every moment the 
subtile charm of her exquisite womanhood. Under- 
standing as he did the reason of her peculiar ig- 
norance of every - day matters, nothing she did 
shocked him. Marian talked gayly and unreserv- 
edly, and promised him a wild boar’s head for his 
Christmas dinner if he came to King’s Lyndon. 
“ And, though they may want to place thee with 
the clerks and the chaplain,” she said, smiling, “ I 
will have thee above the salt with me, for I see 
thou hast the heart and soul as well as the man- 
ners of a gentleman.” 

In a few minutes the simple dinner ordered by 
Macfarren came. Marian’s eyes glistened as they 
rested on the roast beef. “ That came from a goodly 
baron of roast beef ; but where is the ale wherewith 
to wash it down ? ” she asked. 

Macfarren, with a terrible recollection of Mari- 
an’s performances in the ale-drinking line, hastily 
took up the wine-list, marked off two bottles of 
Bass’s ale, and handed it to the obsequious James, 
who disappeared and in a few moments returned 
with it. He fetched glasses with a flourish, and, 
drawing the cork, the creamy flood poured into the 
tumbler at Marian’s plate. This, however, did not 
seem to please Marian. Looking around, she saw 
near by a pitcher. “ Bring me yon tankard,” she 
said to James. James, warned by the light in Mac- 
farren's eye, brought the pitcher. Marian, quietly 
pouring all of the ale in her glass, and all left in 
the bottle, into the pitcher, James in a twinkling 


MAID MARIAN. 


2 9 


opened the other bottle and poured it in also, when, 
lifting the pitcher as she had done the tureen of 
soup to her rosy lips, she drank the quart of ale in 
a single breath. 

Macfarren’s agony of pity was painful to him. 
The idea that she would be laughed at inspired 
him with frenzy. Yet, having perfect self-control, 
he gave no outward indication of the tumult with- 
in him, and managed to say in quite his ordinary 
voice to Marian, “Won’t you let me give you some 
of this roast beef ? ” 

“ In faith I will,” responded Marian, with alac- 
rity, and, reaching over, she picked up a large slice 
of rare beef in her fingers and began munching it 
with much enjoyment. Macfarren was past being 
flustered then. 

“Won’t you have some potatoes?” he asked, 
politely. 

“ Some — what didst thou say ? ” 

“ Potatoes. Just try some.” 

“ What strange stuff is that ? Will it not give 
me a palsy, or the falling sickness ? Methinks I 
have heard they were poisonous.” 

“ They are excellent and very wholesome,” said 
Macfarren, helping her, and gently thrusting a fork 
into her hand. “ Sir Walter Raleigh brought them 
from — from — ” he felt a strange hesitation at say- 
ing the word “ America.” 

“ Then will I try them,” said Marian, dropping 
the fork and taking a spoon. “ Dost thou know 
Sir Walter?” asked she, while busily engaged in 
munching the beef and ladling up the potatoes. 


30 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ I know all about him,” said Macfarren. 

“ And my Lord Cecil of Burleigh ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. A very great man. Sir Walter I 
take to be one of the noblest characters of the 
reign of Queen Bess.” 

“ Then,” said Lady Marian, bridling, and laying 
down her spoon, “ thou must have strange notions 
of loyalty. Sir Walter is a dangerous man ; and if 
the queen should let him out from the Tower, 
where he now languishes in just punishment for 
his crimes, the realm will rue it. He hath dealings 
with the devil, hath Sir Walter.” 

A sudden idea came to Macfarren. “ Have you 
ever heard,” he asked, eagerly, “of a maker of 
plays at the Globe Theatre, in Blackfriars — one 
William Shakespeare ? ” 

“ I have heard of him,” carelessly replied Mari- 
an — “an indifferent good player. Our lady the 
queen hath taken some small notice of him. For 
my part, I wonder she should trouble about a beg- 
garly strolling play-actor like this Jack Shake- 
speare. Now, Ben Jonson hath writ good plays, 
and he is of better birth and breeding than Tom 
Shakespeare — or Jack, or what you will.” 

The depth of Macfarren’s infatuation may be 
judged when he let this speech pass unchallenged. 

Although Marian ate heartily, yet the dinner 
was comparatively short, and Macfarren had no 
idea of ordering any dessert but the pudding. Be- 
fore he knew it, however, the table had been 
cleared, and James had placed before them not 
only plum-pudding, but a strawberry ice and a 


MAID MARIAN. 


31 


dish of nuts and raisins. Lady Marian attacked 
the nuts first, cracking them between her small 
strong white teeth like a squirrel, and then said to 
Macfarren, “ Lend me thy dagger for the pudding.” 
Macfarren gazed at her stupidly. “ Hast not thou 
a dagger ? ” she asked, impatiently. “ These point- 
less blades I see here can cut nothing. Feel in thy 
belt.” 

Mechanically Macfarren put his hand in his 
pocket, and, drawing out his penknife, opened the 
largest blade, and handed it to her. This seemed 
to pacify Marian, who with the assistance of her 
fingers, speedily disposed of the pudding. 

Then came the strawberry ice. With a silent 
but dreadful apprehension Macfarren watched her, 
and when something between a shriek and a groan 
pierced the air, he was the only person in the din- 
ing-room who was not surprised. Marian had 
gulped down half the plateful at once. Clapping 
her hands to her face, she rocked back and forth 
in her chair, evidently suffering agony. Several 
ladies half rose from their chairs ; the head-waiter 
rushed forward ; but Mrs. Van Tromp was already 
on the spot, holding Marian’s hands. 

“ Dear Lady Marian, tell us what it is,” she 
asked, in soothing tones. 

“ I know not,” said Marian, faintly. “ I think 
it must have been that evil stuff called potatoes. 
As soon as I had swallowed it I felt a giddiness, 
my head whirled, and I have heard it hath subtle 
and dangerous qualities.” 

“ It couldn’t have been the potatoes, do you 


32 


MAID MARIAN. 


think?” said Mrs. Van Tromp. “Perhaps it was 
the ale.” 

“ Thou art a fool,” responded Marian, tartly. 
“ Dost thou think a Howard de Winstanley so lily- 
livered that one poor beaker of ale — and weak at 
that — could do this mischief ? ” 

Mrs. Van Tromp was considerably nettled by 
this speech, but the name Howard de Winstanley 
had not lost its magic. 

“ Let us get out of here,” said Macfarren, hur- 
riedly ; and, Marian rising, he offered her his arm, 
and, with Mrs. Van Tromp on the other side, they 
went out of the dining-room as they had entered 
it, and, as before, were the cynosure of all eyes. 

When they reached the corridor, Macfarren 
realized that he must have a little while to think 
before taking another step. What to do with his 
fair protegee was troubling him excessively; and so, 
to gain at least a few minutes’ time, he proposed 
that they should enter a little alcove at the end of 
the main hall, where a tiny fire crackled cheerfully. 
So he led the way, and Marian sank on the luxuri- 
ous sofa, while Mrs. Van Tromp drew up a chair, 
and, spreading wide her gorgeous fan of peacocks* 
feathers, settled herself to hear all about King’s 
Lyndon. 

“ Now do tell us about your lovely place in 
Suffolk. I am very fond of those old English 
places. The last time we were in England we 
spent a delightful week at Fairlight, Sir- Herbert 
Cheevor’s place in Suffolk. It was charming — no 
Americans except ourselves.” 


MAID MARIAN. 


33 

This last was the most charming part of it to 
Mrs. Van Tromp. 

“ I know Fairlight well," replied Marian ; “ al- 
though it has been some years since I was there. 
But the Cheevors — what Cheevors ? It is the 
manor house of the Shadwells.” 

“ Yes, a good many years ago ; but — ” 

Macfarren here, seeing trouble ahead, cut in 
dexterously by a sly jog of Mrs. Van Tromp’s el- 
bow, by which she dropped her fan, and, with a 
thousand apologies for his awkwardness, he picked 
it up. The ruse succeeded, temporarily. 

“ I’m sure you’ll like it here,” continued Mrs. 
Van Tromp, “so many English are here this winter. 
There’s quite a little colony on Staten Island. Of 
course you’ll be invited to the F. C. D. C’s and the 
Patriarchs and Matriarchs?” 

Marian, without answering, turned two wonder- 
ing eyes on Macfarren. Him at least she could 
understand. 

“ They are balls and banquets,” he explained. 

Marian turned to Mrs. Van Tromp. “ I can not 
go except my father, the Lord Howard de Winstan- 
ley, go with me, or else my lady Stukely,” she said. 

“ Oh, there won’t be any trouble about that. I 
will see that your father and Lady Stukely get 
cards,” responded Mrs. Van Tromp, eagerly. 

Here was a go, indeed — taking Lord Howard 
de Winstanley and Lady Marian de Winstanley and 
Lady Stukely all to the Matriarchs under her 
wing! What a happy woman then was Mrs. Van 
Tromp ! 


8 


34 


MAID MARIAN. 


But if the mention of these magic names filled 
the descendant of the Knickerbockers with rapt- 
ure, what were her blissful feelings when Lady 
Marian said gravely : 

“ I am bed-chamber woman to the queen, and 
she hath got so vexatious in her old age, that I 
know not if she will excuse either my poor self or 
Lady Stukely from court, even for a day.” 

Mrs. Van Tromp, although a matron of the 
strictest propriety could at that instant have em- 
braced Macfarren for having introduced her to 
Lady Marian. Macfarren, in spite of the strange 
and risqut position in which he found himself and 
the woman he most honored in the world, could 
scarcely keep his countenance. Mrs. Van Tromp’s 
expressive face, sparkling wfith pleasure, was in 
striking contrast to Lady Marian’s statuesque calm. 

“ Now, pray, tell us something about the queen,” 
kept on Mrs. Van Tromp. “We all take such an 
interest in everything relating to her — such a 
model woman in every respect.” 

“ Is she ? ” dryly remarked Marian. “ I know 
she hath a heavy hand. See you this ear of mine ? 
Well, one day, as I was in her closet, handing her 
her petticoat, I happened to glance sidewise out 
of the window at my Lord Essex in the courtyard, 
and the queen fetched me such a box on the ear, it 
stings me yet, and called me a lazy vixen, with eyes 
for none but cavaliers, and if I did not behave my- 
self better she would pack me off home. And being 
vexed and sore, I did complain to my Lord Bishop 
of London, who told me he could do nothing to 


MAID MARIAN. 


35 


help me, for the queen had sworn at him like any 
trooper as he stood in his bishop’s robes, and had 
kicked and cuffed him most cruelly.” 

Mrs. Van Tromp’s countenance was a study 
during all this. She finally murmured faintly : 

“ I’d no idea the queen was that sort of a 
person.” 

“ And,” continued Lady Marian, animated by 
the recital of her wrongs at the queen’s hands, 
“ she doth wear apparel too young for her years, 
and paints her face, albeit she be near seventy. 
And dances — ” 

“Dances!” said Mrs. Van Tromp, almost 
breathless with surprise. 

“ Yes,” promptly answered Lady Marian, get- 
ting up with alacrity, “not a stately measure like 
this—” 

And here, she walked with matchless grace, a 
few steps of a courtly dance. 

“ But a hoydenish thing like this — ” 

Throwing her train over her arm, Lady Marian 
executed a pas de seal that would have done credit 
to any ballet girl in the world. Her heels flew up 
and her toes flew out, her skirts whirled wildly 
about, and she was a perfect picture of grace and 
abandon. 

To a man of Macfarren’s nature, who had a 
tender respect for all women, this exhibition, how- 
ever graceful, could not but be painful. But when 
the woman in the case was the one dearest to him 
in the whole world, the pain became agony. But 
far was it from Mrs. Van Tromp to be shocked at 


MAID MARIAN. 


36 

any performance of Lady Marian de Winstanley, 
bed-chamber woman to the queen. 

“ Is that the queen’s favorite dance?” she cried. 
“ Then, dear Lady Marian, may I ask you to teach 
me a few steps of it.” 

And the first thing Macfarren saw, Mrs. Van 
Tromp’s train was over her arm and she was caper- 
ing about as furiously as Lady Marian. 

Now, although Macfarren was suffering the 
tortures of the damned, in addition to which he 
momentarily expected the angry interference of 
the proprietor, and to have the misery of seeing 
Lady Marian thrust disgracefully out of the hotel, 
the spectacle of Mrs. Van Tromp as an elderly 
Bacchante was too much for him. He lay back in 
his chair and laughed until he thought he should 
have died. A cow trying to walk a tight rope 
would have been graceful compared to Mrs. Van 
Tromp’s elephantine attempts — but when with a 
final hop, skip and a jump, she asked him what he 
thought of it, he lied desperately. 

“ Beautiful — beautiful ! ” he cried, “ you’ll make 
a sensation, sure — and Van Tromp will get a di- 
vorce,” he added mentally. 

Mrs. Van Tromp and Lady Marian, each ex- 
hausted by the exercise, sat down panting — and 
Macfarren drew a long breath of relief when the 
show was over. 

Mrs. Van Tromp, after fanning herself for a 
moment turned to Lady Marian and asked : 

“ Were you ill coming over in the steamer ? ” 

“ What ? ” inquired Marian. 


MAID MARIAN. 


37 


Mrs. Van Tromp repeated her question, adding, 
“ I always feel every revolution of the screw my- 
self.” 

“ What means she ? ” asked Marian of Macfarren. 
“ Steamer — screw — what are they ? I never saw 
them in Suffolk, or Norfolk either.” 

Macfarren felt perfectly helpless. How could 
he explain it to her? For the first time he floun- 
dered. 

“ Steam, you know,” he said, blunderingly, — 
“ the steam that comes out of a teakettle — ” 

“ Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Van Tromp, who had 
not exactly taken in what Marian had said. 
“ Doesn’t it seem strange that it should propel a 
ship three hundred miles a day across the ocean ? 
Dear me ! ” 

“ The steam from a teakettle propel a ship three 
hundred miles a day ! Madam, either thou art 
grossly deceived, or else thou — ” 

“ But perhaps you came over in a yacht,” cried 
Mrs. Van Tromp, thinking the lady Marian unused 
to the records of the Cunarders and White Star 
ships, in which passengers are so profoundly inter- 
ested. “ Of course on a yacht it is quite different, 
you know. There isn’t any object in covering so 
many miles a day. But I must say I like fast trav- 
eling. The slowest time we ever made in crossing 
was two hundred miles a day, and we were out 
nearly fourteen days.” 

“But the steam from the teakettle — and two 
hundred miles a day ? Did I hear aright ? ” asked 
Marian. 


38 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ You certainly did,” said Mrs. Van Tromp, 
with a heightened color. 

“ Then, madam,” said Lady Marian, rising ma- 
jestically, “ I can only say that such crazy tales 
reflect neither grace nor credit on you, and if you 
be not taken for one who loves marvels more than 
truth it will mrch surprise me.” 

Mrs. Van Tromp rose too. She hated to give 
up taking Lady Marian and her father and Lady 
Stukely to the Matriarchs, but there were some 
things she could not stand. 

“ I am sure,” she said, speaking in a tone of lofty 
dignity, but fluttering her fan with some agitation, 
“ that you do not mean to imply that I say what is 
false ; but your language is at least open to that 
inference.” 

“ Madam,” replied Marian, with equal haugh- 
tiness, “ my language and your inference are one. 
And that thou thinkest me a poor credulous fool 
adds not one whit to the good will I owe thee. 
This comes,” she continued, with severe displeasure, 
“ of mercers’ wives playing lady.” 

Macfarren’s position during this colloquy was 
awkward in the extreme. He had been blest in 
always seeing women in their gracious and lova- 
ble aspect, and now with these two ladies, each a 
queen in her own realm, facing each other, crimson 
and defiant, himself responsible for their meeting, 
the situation was anything but agreeable to his fas- 
tidious nature. But it need scarcely be said that 
his sympathies were all with Marian. Uncon- 
sciously she had been the aggressor ; but how un- 


MAID MARIAN. 


39 


just to judge her by that stricter code of manners 
that governed Mrs. Van Tromp ! Ho s w proud the 
young girl looked, serene in her consciousness of 
rank and position ! How like an angry fish-wife 
looked Mrs. Van Tromp ! And what was he to say 
or do ? Obviously, nothing. 

Mrs. Van Tromp made the next move. She 
was furiously vexed, but, being at the core a very 
shrewd woman, she did not intend to close every 
chink of reconciliation. The Lady Marian was cer- 
tainly a very queer person, and this might be only 
one of her numerous peculiarities ; but she was the 
daughter of Lord Howard de Winstanley and chap- 
eroned by Lady Stukely. So, making a low bow, 
she said : 

“ I am sorry that this should have occurred. I 
feel myself blameless, though ; and when Lady Ma- 
rian de Winstanley makes the apology she owes 
me, and which she also owes herself, I shall be glad 
to forget that it has ever happened.” 

But, before she could sail gracefully off, the 
Lady Marian had started up, and, seizing Macfarren 
by the arm nervously, cried out, in a voice full of 
distress : 

“ Let us return to your lodgings. I am better 
there than elsewhere in this strange inn, and there 
I will remain alone with thee the seven days thou 
sayest it will take for my father to reach me.” 

Poor Mrs. Van Tromp ! 

In moments of great excitement all kinds and 
classes of people are apt to fall into the same 
homely idiomatic language. Therefore Mrs. Van' 


40 


MAID MARIAN. 


Tromp said, or rather shouted, at this terrible in- 
stant, “ The brazen hussy ! ” and with one fierce 
scowl that took in both Macfarren and the Lady 
Marian, and with a wild rustle of draperies, she 
flew down the corridor, the swish-swish of her 
trained dress sounding like the flapping wings of a 
frightened domestic fowl. 

“ You’ve done it now,” was Macfarren’s invol- 
untary exclamation ; but he was too loyal to his 
new-found love to let any other word escape him. 
There was nothing for him but to take her back to 
his apartments, call up the proprietor, and settle 
upon some temporary plan for the protection of 
this solitary and beautiful young creature. “ Come,” 
said he, leading the way. 

“ Perhaps,” said Marian, as they walked rapidly 
down the long, narrow, red-carpeted hall, “ I was 
hasty with the mercer’s wife ; but the low-bred 
creature did vex me with her lies. But I think she 
hath not all her wits about her. Didst thou not 
observe the strange ways of speech she had ? ” tap- 
ping her forehead significantly. 

“ Perhaps,” said Macfarren ; “ but here is the 
door.” He opened it, and ushered her into his lit- 
tle drawing-room as if she had been a queen. Ma- 
rian turned and locked the door behind them. “ To 
keep the mad woman out,” she explained. 

Macfarren led her to a sofa. “ Now,” said he, 
“ let us determine upon your immediate future. 
Rest assured, all that reverence and the tenderest 
respect can do for you shall be done.” 

“ I believe thee,” answered Marian, turning her 


MAID MARIAN. 


41 


large clear gaze upon him. “ I know not who nor 
w.hat thou art, but this : thou art a gentleman ; and 
that is enough.” 

Macfarren bowed to the ground. 

“ But it seems plain to me,” she continued. 
“ London, thou sayest, is but seven days from here 
by land.” 

“ By land and water,” corrected Macfarren. 

“Well, it matters not,” she said, impatiently, 
“ so it be seven days. My father is there, and will 
quickly send a trusty person after me. Now, tell 
me, friend, who are the persons of chief considera- 
tion in this town ? ” 

Macfarren stopped to think a moment. He 
answered, not according to his own conviction, but 
merely by the general estimate : “ The — the — 
Vanderbilts and the Astors, I presume.” 

“ Who are they ? ” demanded Marian. 

“ Rich merchants,” responded Macfarren. 

“ That will do then,” said Marian, decisively. 
“ This, then, is my plan. I will go to the house of 
the first thou didst name. No doubt they will be 
pleased to entertain a daughter of the house of 
Winstanley. I will crave their hospitality until my 
father doth send or come ; and in leaving I will 
present them with this string of pearls, which will 
do doubt delight their honest hearts, unused to the 
gold and glitter of the great. Thou shalt take me ; 
so get thy sword and mantle and come.” 

She was evidently determined ; but at that mo- 
ment a tremendous knocking came at the door. 
“ Open ! open ! ” he heard half a dozen voices 


42 


MAID MARIAN. 


shout, and “ Murder ! ” He recognized the voices. 
There was the loud basso of the proprietor and 
the weak treble of the room-clerk, and there was 
Marsden, his particular chum, and Smithers, the 
greatest gossip of the hotel smoking-room, all bel- 
lowing in chorus, and the door must yield soon. A 
cold horror seized him. Marian, the woman he 
would have died to save — and then, strongly, 
strangely, the coward’s longing to escape from it all 
possessed him like a devil ; had he a pistol all would 
soon be over. In one moment was concentrated 
the agony of a lifetime. He thought he was going 
mad. He put his hands to his reeling head, and 
felt himself sinking by inches into black forgetful- 
ness. 


“ I say, old fellow, you had a close call ! ” was 
what he next heard, in Marsden’s voice. “Your 
clothes were smoking; the picture’s burned to a 
crisp ; and next time you fall asleep with a lighted 
cigar in your mouth just have the fire-brigade 
handy. This’ll cost you in the neighborhood of 
five hundred dollars’ damage to furniture and books 
alone.” 

“ Thank God ! ” was all Macfarren answered. 


LITTLE MISSY. 


Do you know the feeling of living in a house 
pervaded by an unseen presence — a person who 
has lived there once, and whose spirit seems to 
dwell there forever afterward ? That was what 
Mrs. Jack Hereford felt when she and her husband 
took refuge from New York and Newport and 
Tuxedo at Malvern, the old Virginia plantation, 
with its tumbledown house, full of rickety furni- 
ture, and staring daubs of family portraits in every 
room in it. The house and everything in it, and 
six hundred acres of land grown up with pine sap- 
lings, had been bought for a song from the heirs 
of the estate, who had never seen it, and never 
wanted to see it. 

Colonel Baskerville had been the last owner of 
the place, and he had been dead ten years; also 
Mrs. Baskerville. And there had been three chil- 
dren — two sons, one of whom was shot dead at 
Gettysburg, and the other had died of wounds and 
exposure. The daughter, Amy Baskerville, too, was 
no more. All this Mrs. Hereford gathered from 
the one or two persons she had met, and the old 
doctor who was her nearest and only neighbor. 


44 


MAID MARIAN. 


It was this Amy Baskerville whose shadowy, 
girlish presence was all over Malvern. She was 
only twenty when she died, as the plain headstone 
in the old family burying-ground said. The brick 
walls of the graveyard were crumbling, and the iron 
gate had given way. Cattle and sheep browsed on 
the green mounds. Many of the tombs of the 
dead-and-gone Baskervilles were marble slabs sup- 
ported on pillars, of which the solid brick and 
mortar had disappeared, leaving them like gigantic 
tables. The later graves were sunken, especially 
those of Colonel Baskerville and his wife, over 
which a simple monument was raised, inscribed to 
the memory of Colonel Marmaduke Baskerville 
and Nancy, his wife. Those over the two sons 
were highly ornate, and bore long epitaphs : “ Mar- 
maduke, who was killed while gallantly leading his 
regiment, after the fall of both his colonel and 
lieutenant-colonel,” followed by a long list of 
Marmaduke’s virtues ; and “ George, who died of 
wounds contracted in the service of his country, 
at the early age of eighteen.” The story was 
plain. The poor old colonel and his wife had put 
up the showy tombstones with Pity weeping over 
an urn, and their executors had put up the plain 
stones over the father and mother and little Amy. 

Hanging in the grim library, with its few old- 
fashioned books upon the crazy shelves, were por- 
traits of the colonel, a veritable Virginia colonel, 
with a tremendous shirt ruffle rushing out of his 
generous bosom, and his rosy face wearing a look 
of majestic solemnity common in portraits, but 


LITTLE MISSY. 


45 


which Colonel Baskerville never wore for five con- 
secutive minutes in his life. Then there were por- 
traits of George and Marmaduke, both handsome 
lads, both as alike as two peas, and, besides, a por- 
trait of little Amy. She was about sixteen when 
it was painted. It was so sweet, so sad ! There 
was not a trace of weakness in the half-womanish, 
half-childish mouth and chin. In the delicate, 
well-poised head one could see more will power, 
more intellect, than in the portly colonel and both 
of the handsome, frank-faced boys put together. 
This was not Amy’s only picture. There was an 
old daguerreotype on the drawing-room table 
which revealed her in a white dress, and half a 
dozen faded photographs of her in her riding-habit, 
in fancy dress, in numerous other costumes and 
attitudes, sometimes with one, sometimes with 
another, of her brothers; and a whole bookful of 
sketches, scribbled all over, “ The Book of Amy. 
Life and Adventures of Amy Baskerville. By G. 
B., Esq.,” in which G. B., who had considerable 
skill, pictured Amy in numberless grotesque and 
humiliating circumstances, and once or twice as 
she must truly have been, graceful and pictur- 
esque. 

Then there were piles of old-fashioned, desper- 
ately sentimental songs on the broken-down old 
piano in the drawing-room, which had once been 
sung by Amy’s fresh young voice. One day Mrs. 
Hereford came across a frayed little white satin 
slipper that had been Amy’s, and had evidently 
done good service. It was the saddest little re- 


4 6 


MAID MARIAN. 


minder in the world. It was like the ghost of 
youth and joy. And there was a broken fan, laid 
away in tissue paper, and inscribed, “ To be mend- 
ed." Mrs. Hereford locked these little girlish relics 
up carefully in the drawer of the dressing-table in 
what had been Amy’s room. On the dressing-table 
was an old-fashioned swinging glass, in which Amy 
had once been wont to look roguishly, admiring 
her own fresh beauty. The glass remained, but 
Amy was dust and ashes. 

One afternoon Mrs. Hereford, sitting on the 
porch, around which the vines had grown in neg- 
lected luxuriance, saw an old negro woman com- 
ing up the pathway toward the house. She was 
very infirm, and leaned upon the shoulder of a 
little darky about ten years old, who dutifully sup- 
ported her. She stopped at the foot of the steps, 
and, with an old-fashioned courtesy, said, “ Good- 
evenin’, my mistis." 

“ Good-evening, aunty," replied Mrs. Hereford, 
having learned that much of Southern etiquette. 
“Won’t you walk in and rest yourself?” 

She crept painfully up the steps, and sat down 
in the rush-bottomed chair offered her. The little 
darky squatted on the steps, and fixed a pair of 
bright black beads on “ de lady f’um de Norf," 
which he never removed. 

“You will ’scuse me, lady, fur troublin’ you so 
much as ter come here. But I hed to come — I 
hed to come. It seem like I couldn’t die ’twell 
I hed done seed de ole place," she said, pres- 
ently. 


LITTLE MISSY. 


4 7 

“You are quite welcome,” replied Mrs. Here- 
ford. 

“You see,” she said, glancing deprecatingly at 
Mrs. Hereford, while she smoothed down the clean 
but faded handkerchief on her breast, “ I was de 
head ’oman in dis here house. I was ole mistis’ 
maid, an’ den I nuss dem two boys, an’ Miss Amy, 
and arter dey was all gone I went, too. But I 
done hed de ager so bad, an’ I feel so po’ly I don’t 
never ’spect ter be able ter git here no mo’. So I 
come, jest ter tell ole marse an’ all un ’em how 
things is lookin’. Kase I ’spects ter fin’ ’em all 
when I gits to glory, an’ ole marse he sho to say, 
i Keziah, how’s things gwine at Malvern ? ’ Lord ! 
when I got ter tell him de Yankees done bought 
de place an’ livin’ here ! ” 

“ But, gra’mammy,” said the little darky, who 
had been to school and had imbibed some the- 
ology, “ dey doan* keer nuttin’ ’bout Norverners 
an’ Souverners in heaben — ” 

“You shet yo’ mouf, boy! You didn’ never 
know ole marse. Doan’ make no diff’unce whar 
he is, I lay he gwine cuss like a trooper when I 
done tole him de Yankees is livin’ at Malvern — 
an’ he sho’ to arsk.” 

The youngster, more cowed by Aunt Keziah’s 
energy than her arguments, maintained a discreet 
silence after this. Mrs. Hereford, who was a gentle 
and merciful woman, said to her : 

“ Wouldn’t you like to go inside ? It’s very little 
changed since we came.” 

“ Thankee, lady,” she said, rising and hobbling 


48 


MAID MARIAN. 


to the hall door. Her uncertain step was heard 
going toward the library ; then a long pause, and a 
quicker return. “I c’yarn do it! — I c’yarn,” she 
panted, sitting down in her chair. “ I thot I’d go 
ev’ywhar, all ’bout de house, an’ set down in ev’y 
room ; but seems ter me I hear dem voices callin’ — 
ole marse bawlin’ out ‘ Keziah ! ’ an’ little missy 
(she lisp when she talk) she say ‘ Kethiah ’ — an’ I 
couldn’t stay no longer. I was sorry I come.” 

“ Was it very long ago that it all happened ? ” 

“’Twarn’t so long dat I kin forgit it. Fust 
time I ever feel like trouble was cornin’ was one 
mornin’ when little marse — dat was Marmaduke, 
an’ all de black folks call him young marse, ’cause 
he was tall like he pa, an’ was more’n twenty-one ; 
but I had done rock him when he was a baby, an’ I 
never could call him nuttin’ but little marse — he rid 
away fur to whip de Yankees. He help ter raise 
a comp’ny, an' he was ’lected cap’n, an’ dat mornin,’ 
right arter breakfast, he was gwine away. All de 
black folks ’bout de house was out here on dis here 
porch fur to tell him good-by, an’ marse an’ missis 
an’ little missy, an’ Marse George an’ me, an’ all on 
’em was smilin’ an mighty gay ’cept me an' Marse 
George. He was lookin’ sorter black an' sulky 
’cause he want ter go ter de war too ; but he warn’t 
but sixteen years old, an’ ole marse an’ missis 
wouldn’t let him. When little marse come out, he 
look so fine in his bran’-new uniform, an’ Jake — dat 
was he body servant — was settin' on one o’ ole 
marse’s best horses, holdin’ little marse’s horse by 
de bridle, an’ jes’ a grinnin’, he was so happy. 


LITTLE MISSY. 


49 


Young marse had he sword in he hand, an’ little 
missy — she warn’t but fifteen — tooken it from him 
an’ snatch he cap off, an’ strut up an’ down ter 
make ole marse laugh; an’ den she buckle de 
sword on agin, an’ little marse he went up an’ 
shook hands wid ole marse, an’ he say : ‘ Good-by, 
father. You’ll see me back ’fore de leaves fall. 
’Twon’t take long to whip dem chicken-hearted Yan- 
kees/ An’ missis she hoi’ him in her arms, an’ she 
kiss him, but she keep on smilin’ an never shed a tear. 

“ I cry so hard I had ter run upsty’ars, an’ I went 
in little marse’s room, an’ set down in de cheer, an’ 
cried ’twell I couldn’t cry no mo’. I got up den, an’ 
was gittin’ out he nice white shirts an’ he high 
beaver hat fur to put ’em away ’ginst he come 
home, when little missy she walk in. Her cheeks 
was white like chalk, an’ her big black eyes had a 
kinder skeert look in ’em, an’ she steal up ter me, 
an’ say, 1 Oh, mammy, do you think he’ll ever come 
back ? ’ an’ fust thing I know she was cryin’ wus- 
ser’n me, an’ I jes’ took her in my lap like I useter 
when she was a little gal, an’ set down, an’ say, 

‘ H’ish ! h’ish ! in course he gwine ter come back.’ 
All dat day little missy she hang on ter me. Old 
marse he stay down in de fiel’ making ’tense he was 
lookin’ arter de han’s, an’ missis she shet herself up 
in de store-room ter fix up de house-keepin’ book, 
an’ I didn’t see neither one ’twell dinner-time. Den 
dey talk mighty cheerful, an’ little missy she plague 
George ’bout gwine ter de army, but I didn’t hear 
none on ’em say a word ’bout little marse. But I 
know dey didn’t furgit him. 


50 


MAID MARIAN. 


“Arter dat things was mighty cur’us. Missis 
she couldn’t get no mo’ clo’es, an’ she put away all 
her fine silks an’ satins, an’ all little missy’s too, 
an’ her diamond comb, an’ her lace shawl, an’ wear 
nuttin’ but homespun. Little marse, he wroten 
heaps ’o letters, an’ he didn’ furgit he po' ole black 
mammy. He wroten me hisse’f, an’ I got dem let- 
ters in my chis’ now. I c’yarn read ’em, but I loves 
'em. An’ all de time, I kep’ a-honin’ fur him, an’ 
skeert ’bout him. Mistis, she was a brave ’oman — 
she never let on she was skeert. Night an’ mornin’, 
when she read pr’yars in de dinin’-room, wid ole 
marse an’ little missy an’ de house-servants settin’ 
roun’, she pray fur little marse, ’twell sometimes ole 
marse he wipe he eyes, an’ I hed to fling my ap’on 
over my hade an’ cry ; but her voice never shake 
none. But / never did ’spect ter see him no mo’, 
an’ one night — ” 

Here she hesitated. The dead and gone tragedy 
rose up bodily before her eyes, and she paused a 
moment, gasping in contemplation of it. 

“ One night I was settin’ by de charmber fire, an’ 
I hear a cart come up ter de front do’ ; an’ I won- 
der what kin’ o’ folks ’twas cornin’ dat time o’ night 
in a cart. So I run out an’ open de do’ as soon as I 
heerd de knock — an’ ’twas our Jake, ‘Whar’s little 
marse ? ’ I ask him, ketchin’ hoi’ on him. Jake look 
at me, an’ he was kinder ashy, an’ he couldn’t speak. 
An’ I hear ole marse an’ missis cornin’ ; an’ sumpin’ 
was in de cart all covered up, an’ two men was 
takin’ it out. When Jake seed missis, he start ter 
trimble ; an’ ole marse he shout, ‘ Whar’s yo’ mars- 


LITTLE MISSY. 


51 

ter? — whar’s my son?’ An’ Jake he pint ter de 
cart.” 

At this point she stopped. She took out a tat- 
tered handkerchief and began to finger it nervous- 
ly. The afternoon shadows had lengthened since 
she had begun. 

“ Dey brung de coffin in de parlor, an’ sot it 
down on cheers. He look jes’ like he did de mornin’ 
he rid away, but bofe legs was broke. Nobody 
teched him but me an’ Jake. He hed two letters 
in he pocket, an’ one was a letter I had done got 
little missy ter write fur me, tellin’ him to take 
keer o’ hisself. Ole marse, he do mighty queer. 
Arter ev’ything was fixed, he come an’ set down 
by de coffin, an’ he never cry nor nuttin’ — he jes’ 
put he han’ ev’y now an’ den on little marse’s head, 
an’ say, ‘ My son, my son Marmaduke ! ’ Missis 
she set by him, an’ talk ter him, an’ pray wid him, 
an’ read de Bible to him, an’ seem like she didn’t 
think ’bout nuttin’ but comfortin’ old marse. Little 
missy she creep upsty’ars into little marse’s room 
an’ flung herself on de floor, an’ lay like she was 
dead, ’twell I took her up in my arms, and settin’ 
down in de rockin’-cheer, she see me cryin’, an’ she 
cry too. 

“ Ole marse he do jes’ de same arter de funeral. 
He set an’ look at little marse’s picter, an’ he 
wouldn’t let nobody move he whip off’n de rack, 
nor a ole p’yar o’ spurs o’ little marse’s. 

“ Georgie hed been ’way at school. But one 
day a letter come. Marse George hed done run 
away ter jine de army. When dat letter come I 


52 


MAID MARIAN. 


seed missis put on a look I ain’t furgot ter dis day. 
Georgie was her favorite. An’ ’fo’ de winter was 
out — ’twas in de fall when Georgie run away — he 
died in de horspital. He hed been writin’ ’twarn’t 
nuttin’ matter wid him, an’ he’d be outen de hors- 
pital ’fo’ missis could git ter him ; but she was 
gwine ter start de naix day. Ole marse fotch him 
home. He warn’t eighteen, an’ he hed a little 
muffstach cornin’, and he didn’t look any older den 
little missy when dey laid him by little marse. He 
was de handsomest o’ all de chillen. 

“ Dat kilt missis. Ole marse he done fur her 
jes’ like she hed done for him, an’ little missy stay 
by her night an’ day ; but one night, when de doc- 
tor say she was gittin’ better, she call me, an’ she 
say : ‘ Keziah, I’m dyin’, an’ I know it. Don’t leave 
yo’ marster an’ Amy. Stay by ’em faithful like you 
has been ter me an’ de boys.’ An’ de very naix 
week she died. Missis was a Chrischun, if ever I 
seed one. She would ’a lived if she could ; but 
what kilt Georgie kilt her too. Seemed ter me 
arter dat like poor Keziah have ter see ole marse 
an’ little missy go too ; but I kep’ up as well as I 
knowed how. Little missy was mighty pretty den. 
She was mos’ twenty, an’ she kep’ gittin’ mo’ an’ 
mo’ like Georgie. De war was over den, an’ some 
de han’s went off, an’ dere warn’t nobody but me 
in de house, an’ de cook an’ Jake did de res’ o’ de 
work. Ole marse he walk ’bout like he didn’t keer 
fur nuttin’. One day two men drive up in a shiny 
new buggy, an’ I hear ’em talkin’ mighty sassy to 
ole marse on de porch, an’ pres’ny ole marse stan’ 


LITTLE MISSY. 


53 


up, an’ he say out loud: ‘ Gent’men, take all. 
Take my plantation, my house an’ furniture, my 
horses an’ cattle an’ stock an’ ev’ything. I’m a 
bankrup’, but I’m a honest man.’ An’ dey try 
ter smoove him down, an’ arter a while dey went 
off. 

“ ’Bout dat time I heerd dey was some Yankee 
orficers campin’ out in de woods, an’ one arter- 
noon one on ’em rid up ter de do’ an’ got down. 
Ole marse an’ little missy was settin’ out; — ’twas 
summer-time. De minute I seed him I seed he was 
like little marse, and little missy seed it too, ’cause 
she tole me so. He was a gent’mun, ef ever I see 
one — an’ black folks kin tell gent’muns quicker’n 
white folks kin — an’ when he walk up de steps he 
bow low to bofe on ’em, an’ hoi’ he cap in he 
han’ all de time he was talkin’. He tole ole marse 
he was a ingineer, an’ hed come fur to make some 
maps or sumpin’, and he had done foun’ a good 
place fur a camp on de place, an’ de Government 
tell him he kin camp anywhar, but he wouldn’t like 
ter put up he tents an’ things ’cept he had ole 
marse’s consent. Ole marse say, ‘ De Government 
done took my two sons, all my servants, my horses, 
cattle, sheep, an’ ev’ything I hed, so I s’pose it can 
take my plantation too.' De orficer turned red as 
a beet, an’ so did little missy, an’ she got up an’ 
put her hand on ole marse’s shoulder and said, 
‘Father!’ jes’ like missis. Den marser sorter 
cooled down, an’ said he didn’t keer a cuss ’bout 
de camp, an' de orficer thank him like he had give 
him de plantation, and den he made a bow, an’ 


MAID MARIAN. 


54 

one ter little missy, an' git on he horse an’ ride 
away. 

“ Arter dat he was here ev’y day. ’Twas allers 
to see ole marse 'bout sumpin — ’bout de crick, an’ 
de way de lan’ slope, an’ sich ; but I watch him, an’ 
I see he warn’t half listenin’ ter ole marse, an’ he 
kep’ he eyes on little missy. An’ she useter look 
at him sometimes, an’ smile, an’ turn away. An’ 
den he met me on de road one Sunday when I was 
gwine ter meetin’, an’ he stop he horse an’ say: 
‘ Good-mornin’, aunty. How’s yo’ mistis?’ An’ 
when I tole him she was right peart, he laugh, an 
drop a gol’ dollar in my han’. I went home an’ tole 
little missy, and she turn red, an’ say, ‘ It was very 
saucy of him, mammy, an’ I’ve got a great mind 
ter make you send that money back.’ But she 
didn’t. 

“ He kep’ cornin’, an’ missy kep’ gittin’ kinder 
ter him, an’ he was so perlite an’ he voice were so 
nice an’ he were se’ch a gent’mun I couldn’t help 
thinkin’ she gwi’ fall in love wid him. An’ one night 
he come, an’ arter he hed done tole ole marse good- 
night, she come ter de door, an’ he axed her to 
come out on de porch, an’ pres’ny, arter he hed been 
talkin’ ter her in a kinder whisper, he stan’ up 
straight an’ open he arms, an’ she slip in an’ laid 
her head on he shoulder. 

“ Jes’ den ole marse come out. He look so white 
it skeered me. Little missy raise her head, but de 
orficer wouldn’t let go her han’. Ole marse he 
shake like he hed de ager, an’ he say : ‘ Take yo’ 
choice. Go wid dat man, an’ take yo’ father’s 


LITTLE MISSY. 


55 


curse, an’ never darken these doors, or sen’ him 
away where he b’longs, an’ never speak ter him 
again.’ De orficer say : * Colonel Baskerville, I 
love your daughter, an’ she loves me. You can’t 
separate us.’ But ole marse he p’int he finger, an’ 
he holler, ‘Take yo’ choice.’ An’ little missy she 
stan’ fur a minnit or two like stone, an’ den she 
take her han’ away an’ say, ‘ Father can’t do without 
me. It would kill him. You must go.’ De orficer 
he look like he would hoi’ on ter her, but she turn an’ 
walk in de house, an’ he got on he horse, lookin’ 
black an mizerbul, an’ gallop off as hard as he could. 

“ I seed a look naix day in little missy’s face like 
missis when dey got dat letter ’bout Georgie. She 
was gwine ter die — I knowed it. Warn’t nuttin’ 
matter wid her — she went like missis. Ole marse 
he done ev’ything fur her ; she never say a cross 
word ter him, but I b’lieve he wish she hed. Ev’y 
night I ondress her an’ put her ter bed like when 
she was a little gal, an’ ev’y night she got lighter 
an’ lighter. ‘ Oh, mammy,’ she would say, 1 I’m so 
tired ! ’ an’ she didn’t do nuttin’ either. Ole marse 
he walk de floor all night. I heerd him, an’ so did 
little missy. ‘ Poor father ! ’ she would say. Den 
one day, arter de doctor hed been here an’ gone, 
ole marse he go in de library an’ he write a letter, 
an’ he tear it up ; an’ he write ’nother one, an’ he 
tear dat one up ; an' at las’ he write one an’ he 
tooken it upst’yars an’ he lay it on little missy’s bed 
an’ went out. ’Twas ter de orficer. Little missy 
she read it, an’ she say, ‘ It’s too late.’ An’ sho 
’nough, ’twas.” 


56 


MAID MARIAN. 


She stopped again and paused. The shadows 
were very long by this. It was nearly night. 

“ He got here befo’ dey put her in de groun’. 
He stan’ by de grave, an’ when de yearth fell in on 
■de coffin he say to hisself, ‘ Amy ! Amy ! ’ 

“ I stayed by ole marse. I knowed ’twarn’t fur 
long. It come one day when he was settin’ in he 
cheer on de porch. He didn’t move fur so long I 
was skeered. I went up to him, an’ he was dead. 
Arter dat I went away. De orficer he give me some 
money, an’ he tole me he’d sen’ me some mo’ ev’y 
year — an’ dat’s what I lives on. I c’yarn come here 
no mo’. I c’yarn go to de graveyard. Evy’whar I 
sees my chillen like when dey was little. I hear 
little missy sayiiT, ‘ Kethiah ! Kethiah ! ’ I ’spects 
ter see ’em soon, an’ I wants ter tell ’em ’bout de 
ole place. I thankee 



things.” 


She limped down the steps and soon was faif 
down the narrow path, and her bent arid crippled 
form melted away into the twilight. 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY 
CAREW. 


I. 

The sun shone so bright at Portsmouth Har- 
bor that afternoon that everything was gold and 
green and white except the black hulls of the ships 
and the great gray forts, out of which the 
guns sometimes bellowed warnings to Boney 
across the water. And right out in the golden 
light lay his Majesty’s ship-of-the-line Xantippe, 
riding statelily at anchor, like a queen of the 
seas upon her throne, so noble and commanding 
was she. But all the beauty and glory of sunlit 
harbor and white-walled town and sky and ships 
was as black as midnight to Dicky Carew when 
the dreadful summons came : 

“ Please, sir, the captain wants to see you in his 
cabin.” 

When Dicky stood inside the cabin facing the 
captain, stern, handsome, and as neat as wax, a 
sorrier-looking object than Dicky Carew would 
have been hard to find. His cap, which he held 
in his hand and twirled dolefully, had a big hole 


58 


MAID MARIAN. 


torn in the top, his jacket was white with dust, and 
right across his nose was a large black smut. 
Captain Sarsfield examined him carefully from the 
top of his tousled yellow head down to his un- 
blacked shoes, Dicky blushing furiously all the 
while. 

“ A pretty spectacle you are, Mr. Carew, for an 
officer and a gentleman !” For although Dicky 
was only fifteen and barely five feet high, he was a 
middy and a gentleman. 

Dicky said nothing, but continued to twirl his 
cap, while his eyes roamed uneasily around the 
captain’s orderly cabin. And there, sitting on a 
sofa, with a dolly in her lap, was a little dark-eyed 
girl dressed in mourning, who was watching Dicky 
with great interest. 

“ What have you been doing, sir, to get your- 
self in such a mess as you are ?” 

“ Catching cockroaches down in the hold, sir, 
with Barham,” answered Dicky, in a quavering 
voice. 

“A nice employment for two young gentlemen. 
When I was a midshipman, I employed my leisure 
in studying my profession.” 

‘‘Yes, sir. That’s what all the officers tell us. 
Barham and I are the only fellows I ever heard 
of that did anything but study their profession.” 

Captain Sarsfield looked very hard indeed at 
Dicky. Was it possible that this dirty and ingenu- 
ous youth was poking fun at a post-captain ? But 
could deceit reside in those innocent eyes and that 
timid, boyish voice ? The captain was in doubt . 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 59 

“At all events,” he continued, with an appall- 
ing look at the smut on Dicky’s sunburned nose, 
“your appearance, sir, is disgraceful. I believe 
you are the dirtiest midshipman in his Majesty’s 
service, and you will be docked of leave to go 
ashore for the next eight days.” 

The captain was about to deliver Dicky a lect- 
ure, when an orderly tapped at the cabin door and 
saluted. 

“ The new cutter has come, sir, and is about to 
be taken aboard.” 

The captain got up and went out without re- 
membering to send Dicky back into the steerage, 
where he belonged. 

As Dicky continued to stand, cap in hand, he 
would certainly have boohooed right out if he had 
not been an officer and a gentleman. Dicky, 
when he remembered that, gulped down two large 
sobs that rose in his throat, and winked his eyes to 
keep the tears back. Was there ever another such 
unlucky fellow as he, Dicky Carew, he asked him- 
self, dismally. There was Barham, that was just 
as busy with the cockroaches as he was, and yet 
Barham’s jacket wasn’t dirty nor his nose smutted, 
and if the captain had sent for him he would 
have turned up as trig as the captain himself. 
And how many times a week Dicky was mast- 
headed for untidiness, and how often had he 
ridden to London and back on the spanker 
boom for that same fault, only Dicky himself 
could tell. 

While he was pursuing these melancholy reflec- 


6o 


MAID MARIAN. 


tions the little girl on the sofa had fixed her dark 
eyes on him. 

“ What’s the matter with you ? ” she asked. 

“I’m dirty,” answered Dicky, desperately. “I 
tub and scrub as much as any of ’em, but the cap- 
tain can’t see what I am underneath, and he thinks 
because I’m dirty outside I’m dirty all over.” 

“ The captain is my papa,” said Miss Bright 
Eyes. 

“ I wish he was my papa,” remarked Dicky, 
sadly, “ if he’d be any easier on me.” 

Girls, as a rule, possessed no charm for Dicky ; 
but this was such a very little one — not more than 
ten years old — that he regarded her as an infant, 
and rather a pretty one. 

“ I’m staying in Portsmouth,” she continued, 
nursing her dolly very carefully, “ with my gov- 
erness and my nurse. My mamma is dead. She 
died only a month ago — before papa’s ship got 
here — and I come on board nearly every day to 
see my papa. Sometimes, if it rains, I stay all 
night. I have a funny little bed made up in papa’s 
sleeping cabin, and in the morning I get up and 
make his tea for him.” 

That story about her mamma went to Dicky’s 
heart. 

“ And my mother got to Portsmouth this morn- 
ing to see me, and she hasn’t much money, and 
can only stay a week, and I can’t go ashore to see 
her because I didn’t keep my face clean and 
mussed my jacket.” 

“ Why didn’t you behave yourself, then ? ” 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 6l 

promptly and severely asked his young friend. 
“ Papa always behaved himself when he was a little 
boy like you.” 

This last very much incensed Dicky. 

“ Now look here, young lady,” he said, “ I’m an 
officer and a gentleman ! Didn’t you hear your 
father call me so just now ? And if people in this 
ship call the officers ‘ little boys,’ they’ll get put in 
irons as likely as not. As for the officers behaving 
themselves when they were midshipmen, everybody 
knows they were angels — sea-angels — and the steer- 
age was a little heaven. Oh, they didn’t catch 
cockroaches — not they! And all the time they 
weren’t on duty they were studying or saying their 
prayers. And as for skylarking, why, they never 
heard of such a thing! I’ll tell you what — eh, 
what’s your name ? ” 

“ Polly,” answered Bright Eyes. 

“ Well, Polly, it ain’t true that ‘ whom the gods 
love die young ’ ; for if it were, there wouldn’t be 
an officer of this ship alive to-day. Barham and I 
ain’t going to die young, though. The gods don’t 
love us, nor the captain neither.” 

“ You oughtn’t to talk so about dying,” an- 
swered Polly, gravely. “ You never had your mam- 
ma to die. Sometimes, when I’ve stayed on board 
all night, I’ve waked up and seen papa sitting by 
me, looking so strange and sad, and I know he is 
thinking about mamma, although he says, ‘ Go to 
sleep, my dear, nothing is the matter ! ’ and I can 
see the tears on his cheek ; and my papa is a brave 
sailor too. He says he knows I ought to go to 


62 


MAID MARIAN. 


school, but he can’t bear to part with me.” This 
very proudly. 

“ I dare say,” said Dicky, mournfully, “ it will 
break my mother’s heart when she has come all 
this long way to see me, and can’t see me. And 
she will be sure to think I have done something 
scandalous. I know she will ! ” 

This worked so upon Polly’s feelings that she 
said : 

“ Come here, and I’ll get some pictures and 
show you.” 

“ I can’t,” answered Dicky. “ I’ve got to stand 
here until the captain comes back.” 

“ Then I’ll come to you,” said Polly. 

When the captain got back he found Polly sit- 
ting on the floor, with her lap full of pictures, and 
Dicky on the floor too, explaining them to her. 
The captain was quite in the cabin before Dicky 
heard a step. Then he jumped up, stood perfectly 
rigid, and blushed scarlet. It was bad enough to 
be caught at boyish tricks on the quarter-deck, 
which had sometimes happened, but to be found 
playing on the floor with a little girl was a reflec- 
tion on his manhood. However, the captain did 
not seem very angry. He only said, “ You may go, 
sir, and don’t let me have to speak to you again 
about your personal appearance ! ” and Dicky fan- 
cied he saw something like a smile on Captain 
Sarsfield’s face. Dicky said, “ Yes, sir,” and bowed 
to the captain, and then to the little girl. 

“ Good-by, Miss Polly,” said he. It had been 
“ Polly ” and “ Dicky ” before the captain came in. 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 63 

“ Ain’t you going to give me a kiss ? ” asked 
Polly in a surprised voice. 

Dicky could get no redder than he was, but his 
hair almost stood on end, while he darted out and 
down the ladder, never stopping until he got to his 
own nook in the steerage. 

“ Girls are deuced bothersome — damme if they 
ain’t,” he remarked to Barham — these young gen- 
tlemen, in privacy, swearing quite mannishly, and 
discussing the feminine sex with a great assump- 
tion of knowingness. 

Up in the cabin, the captain had said, “ Polly ! ” 
in a reproving voice, and Polly had climbed up on 
his knee and kissed him, by way of answer. 

“Do you know, papa, Dicky’s mother is poor. 
She is the widow of an officer who was killed by 
that wicked Boney at the battle of the Nile ” — for 
in those days Boney was supposed to command on 
sea as well as on land — “ and Dicky was only ten 
years old, and his mother has come to Portsmouth 
to see him, and she can only stay a week, so Dicky 
won’t be able to see her.” 

“Ah,” said the captain, stroking his little daugh- 
.. ter’s hair. 

“ And she is staying in a little gray house, the 
next but one to the gate leading into the great 
dock yard. Papa, I would like to go to see Dicky’s 
mother the next time we go ashore, and tell her that 
Dicky hasn’t done anything very bad — because he 
says she’ll think he has been very, very naughty — 
and tell her it’s only because he is so dirty.” 

“ You may go this afternoon,” said the captain ; 


6 4 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ and perhaps I may let Dicky off before the week 
is out.” 

The next day, as Dicky was rather disconso- 
lately poring over a book on seamanship, another 
summons came to the cabin. Dicky was in perfect 
order, for a wonder, and looked considerably less 
frowsy and blowzy than he had the day before. 
When he entered the captain’s room the captain 
was at the table, writing, and Polly, on her knees 
on the cushioned seat, was peering out of the port- 
hole ; but she turned around when Dick entered. 

“ Mr. Carew,” said the captain, sternly, “ I hope 
I impressed upon you yesterday the necessity for 
absolute personal neatness in your attire. The 
punishment I gave you, however, I have conclud- 
ed to partially remit. After to-day, you may go 
ashore when you can get leave.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” replied Dicky, blushing with 
pleasure; “and — and — Captain Sarsfield, I’m not 
— as dirty as I look.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, sir,” responded Captain 
Sarsfield, gravely. “ Good afternoon.” 

Still Dicky lingered. He wanted to say a word 
to Polly, but he couldn’t do it with the captain’s 
grave eyes fixed on him. So he only hung about 
for a moment, then said, “ Good-by, Miss Polly,” 
and vanished. 

Dicky’s mother was delighted to see him next 
day, and Dicky gave her such a bear hug, as he 
sometimes did Barham, that his mother shrieked, 
while she laughed and covered his face with kisses. 

“ And Dicky, such a dear little girl, all dressed 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 65 

in black, came here yesterday with her nurse ! She 
was little Polly Sarsfield, the captain’s daughter, 
and she told me why you couldn’t come ashore, 
and that the captain, hearing I was here, had con- 
cluded to remit your punishment. I knew my dear 
boy wasn’t punished for insubordination, or swear- 
ing, or gambling. If I thought that possible, it 
would break your mother’s heart.” 

Dicky felt rather uncomfortable at his mother’s 
supreme confidence in him, and was glad she didn’t 
know everything that went on among the young 
gentlemen in the steerage. 

“And Polly is a jolly little thing,” remarked 
Dicky. “ Nothing but a baby, though.” 

“ Polly will be a young lady by the time you 
are a man,” answered his mother, who did not 
take Dicky’s assumption of manliness seriously. 

“ Oh, pshaw ! ” remarked Dicky, with a blush. 

II. 

In those days, when England was at war with 
France and half of Europe, promotion was some- 
times rapid ; and when Dicky had not got very far 
in his twenties he had been gazetted three times, 
and actually commanded a little eighteen-gun brig 
that carried as much manliness and courage as 
anything afloat. Dicky walked the deck of his lit- 
tle vessel, the Hornet, as proudly as Captain Sars- 
field walked his splendid quarter-deck on his new 
line-of-battle ship — the Indomptable, finer even 
than the old Xantippe. And Dicky .had developed 
5 


66 


MAID MARIAN. 


into a model of sailor-and-officer-like neatness, 
and kept his ship as clean as a lady’s boudoir. 
And one bright day the Hornet came sailing into 
Portsmouth Harbor, her sails and rigging roughly 
patched where the shot had torn through, with 
holes covered with bright new planking in her 
black sides, with four of her guns shattered at 
their muzzles, but bravely towing a French sloop 
of war almost twice as big as the little Hornet. 
The Frenchman, too, could barely keep afloat, but 
he had ten good guns that Dicky had brought 
home in place of the four he had lost. And Dicky, 
seeing the great, big, splendid Indomptable an- 
chored in the harbor, stood boldly in and dropped 
his anchor just astern of her. Dicky knew well 
enough who commanded the Indomptable. 

Oh, what shouting and hurrahing there was 
when the people in the ships and those on shore 
made out the little Hornet ! And what dipping of 
flags and waving of caps and cheering when the 
little vessel had come to anchor ! And then, when 
Dicky, in a very small and shabby gig, with only 
four men at the oars, and some of them with their 
heads or their legs bound up, was rowed to the 
admiral’s ship, there was more cheering and shout- 
ing, which made Dicky’s heart swell. 

That very afternoon, by the time Dicky had 
got back on board the Hornet, a gig very unlike 
the Hornet’s gig put off from the big Indomptable, 
and presently Captain Sarsfield clambered up the 
side, and Dicky, looking very red and pleased, 
holding his cap in his hand very much as he had 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 67 

done when Captain Sarsfield sent for him to scold 
him about his untidiness and general naughtiness, 
received the captain at the gangway. 

“ Let me congratulate you,” said Captain Sars- 
field, shaking his hand warmly. “ What a trounc- 
ing you gave the Frenchman to be sure! How 
you managed to keep afloat I can’t see.” 

“We are badly knocked to pieces,” answered 
Dicky, “and on that account I hope you will ex- 
cuse the appearance of things. The ship isn’t as 
clean as I’d like her to be.” 

The Hornet was, though, as clean as hands 
could make her, her brass-work shining and her 
deck snow-white, although some of her spars were 
in splinters and things generally broken up. As 
for Dicky, he looked as if he had been parboiled 
and sand-papered and then hung out to dry, so 
clean was he; and he had the air of having just 
stepped out of a bandbox. Captain Sarsfield 
grinned at Dicky. 

“You are certainly cleaner than you used to 
be,” said he. 

The captain had to hear all about the fight off 
Cherbourg, where Dicky sailed in under the very 
guns of the forts and made the Frenchman come 
out to fight. It seemed very unequal at first, as 
the Frenchman had the most men and the most 
metal. But Dicky plainly had the most seaman- 
ship, and, in a running fight that lasted four hours, 
he cut the French ship up so that at last, when she 
struck, nothing but a tow line and her nearness to 
Portsmouth saved her from going to the bottom. 


68 


MAID MARIAN. 


Both the Frenchman and Dicky were too far gone 
to carry the prisoners back to Portsmouth. These 
had been transferred to another vessel, but Dicky 
had the Frenchman’s captain and her ensign and 
ten guns, which was good for Dicky. 

Dicky was dying to ask Captain Sarsfield about 
Polly ; but, although he had been gazetted three 
times, he was so afraid of the captain that he could 
not get it out to save his life until just as Captain 
Sarsfield was leaving. 

“ And— how— how is Miss Polly ? ” asked Dicky, 
looking sheepish and blushing furiously. 

“ Very well,” answered the captain, “ and at 
present paying me a little visit. When you 
come to dinner to-morrow you will see her. She 
is quite a young lady — sixteen her last birth- 
day.” 

Young ladies -grew up earlier then, and sixteen 
was considered quite old. So Dicky went, and 
found Polly a grown-up young lady, with full mus- 
lin skirts down to her heels, a short-waisted bodice 
belted just under her arms, and a large poke- 
bonnet. Dicky was very shy, but Polly was not, 
.and rallied him unmercifully, even cruelly alluding 
to the smut on his nose, which she had remem- 
bered all those years. 

Things were very pleasant about that time to 
Dicky ; but then the war closed soon after, much 
to Dicky’s disgust, who had wild dreams of com- 
manding a fifty-gun sloop of war at least before 
Boney was finally done for ; and Dicky saw, dis- 
consolately enough, that he was well off to have 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 69 

got the little Hornet, and that he would not get 
anything better for a long while. 

Meanwhile, Dicky had been making hay while 
the sun shone, and a day had come when he went 
on board the Indomptable to ask Captain Sars- 
field a very important question indeed — which 
was whether Polly and himself could get married. 
Dicky was terribly frightened, but managed to ap- 
pear tolerably self-possessed as he sat in Captain 
Sarsfield’s cabin, although he could not help twid- 
dling his cap desperately under the table. The 
captain was as grave and stern as ever, and gave 
Dicky no manner of help while he was blundering 
and floundering about, trying to tell the captain 
how much he loved Polly, although it was perfectly 
plain that Captain Sarsfield, or anybody with half 
an eye, for that matter, must have known directly 
what ailed Dicky. 

Then Dicky told the captain that he had a snug 
sum of prize money put by, which should be Pol- 
ly’s, and the captain had said that Polly was not 
quite dowerless, and the whole thing was arranged, 
Captain Sarsfield shaking Dicky’s hand formally, 
and wishing the young couple might be as happy 
as he and Polly’s mother had been, long years ago. 
And for a wonder, Captain Sarsfield appeared to 
think that perhaps Polly and Dicky might have 
something to say to each other, and considerately 
stalked up and down the quarter-deck for a full 
hour, while the young ones had a rapturous inter- 
view in the cabin. When Dicky got back to the Hor- 
net, he sent for Barham, who was his first-lieuten- 


70 


MAID MARIAN. 


ant, and they hugged each other and danced round 
in the cabin very much as they had done when 
they found amusement in catching cockroaches in 
the old Xantippe. 

Polly and Dicky were to be married in the 
spring. Dicky was cruising about the English Chan- 
nel, getting into Portsmouth for a few days every 
month, where the Indomptable was lying await- 
ing her turn to be overhauled and repaired, for she 
too had got a shot or two from Boney before he 
got away to Elba. 

One bright day in spring, as bright as the one 
on which Dicky first met Polly, the Hornet was 
coming into Portsmouth. There was a spanking 
breeze from the sea that tossed the white caps 
high, and the little Hornet was skimming along 
under all the sail she could carry. Now, although 
French ships had begun to appear again in English 
ports by that time, they were rather unusual ; so 
Dicky, who was on the bridge of the Hornet, was 
rather surprised to see a big French frigate, the Al- 
ceste, sailing slowly out of the inner harbor. She 
was a fine ship, but she was sailing like a hay-stack, 
one mile ahead and three miles to leeward. The 
passage into the harbor of Portsmouth is narrow — 
not more than four or five hundred yards across — 
and from the lubberly way the Alceste was tacking 
about, she would probably take all the room there 
was, and considerably more if she could get it, to 
come out, and leave none at all for the little 
Hornet ; but Dicky wasn't afraid of that. When it 
came to navigating a ship in a tight place, young 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. yi 

Captain Carew was a match for any man who sailed 
the seas. In those days England claimed the sover- 
eignty of the narrow seas, and exacted that a man- 
of-war, of any other nation whatsoever, on meeting a 
British war-ship in those waters, should salute the 
British ensign by lowering her topsails. Naturally, 
this was peculiarly hateful to French captains, who 
not infrequently omitted it, when the French ship 
was very big and the British ship very little. Then 
a long official correspondence would follow, but no 
French captain was ever punished for this defiance 
of the might of England. Dicky Carew, however, 
was not the man to consider the difference between 
a big ship and a little one where the respect due 
the flag he carried was at stake. His ensign was 
set, which was a hint to the French ship that her 
topsails must come down. 

But the Alceste seemed in no hurry to show her 
manners. The fresh breeze that filled her ill-set 
sails kept most of her people busy, the sailors 
bustling about the decks with more chattering and 
noise than Captain Carew would have allowed on 
his ship in a month. But not a man went near her 
topsail halliards. 

From the way the Alceste was lurching about, 
it began to look very doubtful if the little Hornet 
could pass in in the narrow passage to the harbor, 
where it was plain they would meet; but Dicky 
Carew had no notion of shortening sail and hang- 
ing around outside until the Frenchman had got 
out. So in contrast to the great lumbering Alceste, 
the little Hornet came dashing on, with a free wind, 


7 2 


MAID MARIAN. 


making about two knots to the Alceste’s one, and 
her course as straight as the crow flies. The French 
captain, who was also on his bridge, saw that the 
Hornet had no mind to stand out of his way, but 
he laughed as he looked at his own big hull and 
towering masts, and saw the little Hornet, whose 
mainmast was no higher than the Alceste’s lower 
spars. And not the slightest sign was made that 
his topsails were to be lowered. 

Now Dicky could stand the Alceste’s bad sea- 
manship, but it didn’t suit him to take the Alceste’s 
snub, and then sit down and write to the Admiralty 
and complain about it. He had been used to teach- 
ing Frenchmen to behave themselves, and he meant 
to do so now. 

“ Barham,” said he to his first lieutenant, “ the 
rascals don’t mean to salute.” 

“ Report ’em to the Admiralty as soon as we 
come to anchor,” responded Barham. 

“Wouldn’t it be better to smash his cabin 
windows, and splinter one of his starboard boats 
beforehand — eh ? ” 

“ Decidedly better,” said Barham, whose blood 
was up too. “With such a lot of landsmen and 
marines as they’ve got aloft, it will go hard if the 
Hornet can’t scrape some of the paint off his sides.” 

By this time the French captain saw what was 
coming. The Hornet was standing up beautifully 
to the breeze, and apparently making straight for 
the Alceste. In two minutes more she was right 
on his starboard quarter, and the French sailors 
began to yell. Barham had taken the wheel, and 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 73 

kept his eye on Captain Carew, when, as Dicky 
waved his hand, Barham threw down the helm, and 
the little Hornet scraped so close to the Alceste that 
the quartermaster, taking up a boat-hook, jammed 
it through the Alceste’s cabin windows, bawling : 

“ Take that for yer manners, ye ornsightly lub- 
bers!” 

And then there was a crash — a boat on the Al- 
ceste’s starboard quarter was gone, and as the big 
frigate lurched across the yard of blue water be- 
tween them, the little Hornet’s stanch mizzen mast 
struck the Alceste’s lower spars, that were only half 
secured, and tore through the rigging as if it were 
a cobweb. In another minute the Hornet with her 
helm righted had danced off, her men cheering and 
jeering, while the French captain fairly danced 
with rage, and shook his fist at Captain Carew, 
who raised his cap, and bowed and smiled politely. 

Of course it was very wrong, and Captain Ca- 
rew knew it, particularly when he saw the Alceste 
deliberately put about to return to Portsmouth. 
Dicky began to have dreadful visions of being 
obliged to go on the Alceste in full uniform, and 
make an apology to the French captain, than which 
he would much rather have had an arm cut off. 

But all this was forgotten when Dicky caught 
sight of the Indomptable, for Polly was still in 
Portsmouth, and not many days passed without 
the captain’s daughter coming on board the big 
frgate with her father for an hour or two. Polly 
loved the Indomptable, as she had done the old 
Xantippe, and was quite as much at home on her, 


74 


MAID MARIAN. 


although she no longer had a little bed in her 
father’s cabin Captain Sarsfield looked very 
serious when Dicky told him about it, and things 
generally began to look grave when the French 
ambassador came down to Portsmouth and looked 
at the Alceste, and then took the French captain 
back to London with him. Dicky was not a whit 
behindhand in making his report to the Admiralty 
about the French ship’s omission — but that was all 
he was entitled to do. The jabbing the boat-hook 
through the Alceste’s cabin windows, and the 
smashing her boat, while the Hornet’s first lieuten- 
ant was at the wheel and her captain on the bridge, 
was altogether another thing. And in a very little 
time indeed came the order fora court-martial, and 
young Captain Carew was ordered to turn his ship 
over to his first lieutenant, and consider himself 
under arrest. What a stir it made ! And the peo- 
ple all said, “ If they break him for crippling a ship 
twice his size, without getting a scratch, they will 
have hard work finding another captain who can 
do it ; and if every man resented an affront to the 
British ensign like that, why, it never would be 
safe to affront it.” 

The captains, sitting stern and solemn around 
the table in the admiral’s cabin, heard the whole 
story. In vain they tried to bring out that acci- 
dent had something to do with it ; but Dicky, cool 
and calm, declared openly that he had done it on 
purpose, and would do it again, to any man that 
did not salute the ensign flying on his Majesty’s 
ship Hornet — if he could. 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 75 

The courts-martial in those times did not keep 
a man long in suspense. There was indeed a fear- 
ful dispatch in taking an officer’s commission away 
from him. One whole May day was Dicky on the 
rack, and he knew his fate before he left the ad- 
miral’s ship. He left it a free man — free with the 
dreadful freedom of a man whose country dis- 
owns him. Track would be kept of' him, so the 
Admiralty could set its seal of condemnation on 
him too, but otherwise he could go where he 
pleased. 

The first use he made of this new and terrible 
liberty, was to go on board the Indomptable, where 
he was shown into the captain’s cabin. Dicky 
was as white as a sheet, but he held his head up 
manfully. 

“ Captain Sarsfield ” he said “ I am a ruined 
man. I have been dismissed the service of my 
country. I came to say that although I am not 
conscious of having done anything to disgrace my 
name, I can no longer ask your daughter to ac- 
cept it.” 

Captain Sarsfield too was pale. He loved Dicky, 
but he could not bring himself to give Polly to a 
cashiered officer, and he said so. But just then 
Polly herself appeared, and marching up to Dicky, 
with blazing eyes, she put her hand on his arm. 

“ But I want to marry him, and I will ! ” she 
said. “ He is the best sailor in the British navy, 
and if they cashier him because he can do what 
hardly anybody else can do, very well. Papa, I 
shall marry him ” 


76 


MAID MARIAN. 


Captain Sarsfield rubbed his eyes to see if he 
were awake or dreaming. Was this his quiet, gen- 
tle Polly ? As for Dicky, his heart swelled, but he 
removed her hand gently from his arm. 

“No, Polly,” he said; “your father is right. I 
could not bring you down to be the wife of a 
man counted unfit to serve his king and his coun- 
try.” 

“But I am not afraid of being poor,” said Pol- 
ly, with tears in her eyes. 

“ It is not that, my dear,” answered Dicky, in 
a husky voice. “ It is because I am broken — don’t 
you see ? I shall have to take off the uniform 
that I had hoped to wear as long as I lived. I 
shall have to either live in my own country as a 
discredited man, or carry my discredit with me to 
another country ; no, Polly.” 

“ But I say I will !” answered Polly, fiercely. 

“ Good-by,” said Dicky, taking her hand. “ You 
are too generous ; it would be cruel to take advan- 
tage of you, dear Polly — ” 

The captain had been standing there all the 
time. Both Dicky and Polly had forgotten him 
until he spoke. 

“ Now, Polly,” said he, firmly, “ this must stop. 
Carew is right.” 

“Well, then,” said Polly, standing up very 
straight and bold, “ he may refuse to marry me 
now ; but I mean to let him know once a year that 
I am ready and waiting for him, until — until he 
finds somebody else.” 

“ There’s no danger of that,” said Dicky, kiss- 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 77 

ing her hand; “but you and I can never be mar- 
ried now, Polly.’* 

Dicky did not go back to the Hornet, but went 
ashore and to an inn, where, calling for a private 
room, he sat and tried to look the thing in the face 
like a man ; but he couldn’t. His profession gone, 
his mother’s heart broken, separated from Polly, 
no longer Captairi Carew, commanding his Majes- 
ty’s ship Hornet, but plain Dicky Carew command- 
ing nothing at all. 

Oh, poor Dicky! How much easier would it 
have been to be killed in those sea-fights with 
Boney’s ships ! What was he to do ? All night 
long Dicky sat up and walked the floor, and when 
day broke he was so haggard and miserable that 
he was ashamed to show himself. All day he sat 
in his little room; he would wait until nightfall 
before he took the coach for London. Disgraced 
men ought to hide themselves from the light of 
day. Toward evening, just as he was preparing to 
go out, a furious knocking came at his door. 
Dicky opened it, and there stood a functionary 
all in scarlet and gold — a king’s messenger, so 
Dicky knew. The messenger, making a low 
bow, handed a packet to Dicky. “ I was directed 
to deliver this into Mr. Carew’s own hands,” he 
said. 

Dicky winced. It was the first time that he 
had been called “ Mr. Carew.” 

Dicky broke the big red seal, and found two 
documents inclosed. One was a letter from the 
Admiralty, and this is what it said : 


78 


MAID MARIAN. 


Richard Carew, Esq.: Sir. — I am directed 
by the Lords of the Admiralty to inform you that 
the sentence of the late court-martial, finding you 
guilty of willfully running into the French frigate 
Alceste, coming out of Portsmouth Harbor, on the 
25th of March, has been submitted to his Majesty 
in council, and the decision of the court — viz., that 
you be deprived of your commission as commander 
— has been approved by his Majesty, without re- 
garding the provocation you were under, or the 
great skill, daring, and capable seamanship you 
displayed on the occasion. But his Majesty here- 
with incloses you a commission under the royal 
seal as post-captain, and directs you to take com- 
mand of his majesty’s ship Hornet, now lying in 
Portsmouth Harbor ; and may all impudent French- 
men be served like the Alceste, as long as British 
hearts of oak endure ! ” 

And then followed signatures and seals. But 
Dicky could read no more ; and although he was 
as brave a fellow as ever stepped, he fell down on 
his knees and cried like a woman or a baby. 

Within a month Dicky and Polly were married. 
The day was beautiful and bright, and the little 
Hornet was dressed with bunting from rail to 
main-truck, and the wedding bells clashed so mer- 
rily that they were heard half across the water to 
Cherbourg. 

Note. — In Thackeray’s Roundabout Papers he says : “ In 
George IPs time there was a turbulent young lieutenant, Tom 
Smith by name, who was broke on complaint of the French 


THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW. 


79 


ambassador for obliging a French ship of war to lower her top- 
sails to his ship at Spithead. But by the king’s orders, Tom 
was next day made a captain.” Tom’s picture is at Greenwich. 
He was called “ Handsome Smith,” but his portrait is by no 
means so handsome as his conduct. 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


I. 

My acquaintance with the brothers Kourdsoff 
commenced as far back as when I was sub-profess- 
or at the Polytechnic Institute in St. Petersburg and 
Loris, the elder, was in the Guards, while Vlad- 
imir, the younger, was still at the School of Gun- 
nery. These two brothers were commonly mistaken 
for twins, although Loris was no less than four 
years older than Vladimir ; but, though Nature had 
made them outwardly alike, she had not failed to 
mark an extraordinary difference in their charac- 
ters. Fortune, too, having endowed them equally 
in the first instance, had unequivocally declared one 
to be her favored child. 

Vladimir Kourasoff was by turns morose and 
flippant. He had managed to encumber himself 
with debts even sooner than young Russian nobles 
usually do, and was, moreover, suspected of in- 
clining to revolutionary principles. The Govern- 
ment took good care to be informed of everything 
Vladimir Kourasoff said and did. 

Loris, on the contrary, enjoyed a high degree of 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


8l 


imperial favor. He had been sent, at his own re- 
quest, to take command in one of the disturbed 
districts near the Turkestan frontier — a position 
which he filled to the satisfaction of the Govern- 
ment and of the local authorities too, a thing diffi- 
cult to do. About this time he invented a new fuse, 
which was approved by the Ministry of War, and 
for which he declined to accept any compensation, 
which induced the emperor to decorate him. He 
belonged to the true party of order and progress, 
which seeks to improve the Russ as he is without 
vainly attempting to turn him into a German or a 
Frenchman. His estates near Wilna were said to 
prove by their flourishing condition that emancipa- 
tion could be turned to the mutual benefit of pro- 
prietor and serf. Of his private character my great 
affection for him makes me speak with diffidence. 
I can only say that he had a multitude of friends 
who shared my opinion of him. His talents and 
accomplishments were adorned with a singular mod- 
esty, which, if it did not disarm jealousy, at least 
silenced it. 

The Russ is essentially democratic ; therefore it 
is not remarkable that Count Loris Kourasoff, one 
of the darlings of St. Petersburg society, should 
have for his friend a sub-professor who lived in 
modest lodgings in an unfashionable quarter be- 
yond the Izaak bridge. Once a year we usually 
took a journey together; and one summer he ac- 
companied me to Germany on a mission of a senti- 
mental nature, which, if not settled to my satisfac- 
tion, was at least settled, and I set myself to 
6 


82 


MAID MARIAN. 


forgetting Maria von Spreckeldsen as quickly as I 
could. This proved to be easier than I had im- 
agined ; and, though I wept tears of rage, and 
Maria tears of disappointment, when her father 
refused to let us marry on my salary as sub-pro- 
fessor, the anguish of both subsided by degrees, 
leaving only a feeling of placid regret. Maria, 
who could not talk philosophy so well as I, acted it 
much better, and in less than a year married Herr 
Sachs, one of the richest brewers in Bavaria ; and 
when I last saw her I thought I would not ex- 
change the image which dwelt in my heart of my 
adored Maria in her youthful slenderness for the 
excellent but stout Madame Sachs, while I am sure 
she would not have given her brewer for all the 
professors in Russia and Germany together. But 
we still correspond (with the full approbation of 
Herr Sachs), and in our letters call each other 
Gottlieb and Maria. O youth ! O folly ! O Maria ! 

Count Loris frequently complained that my af- 
fair with Maria had destroyed his fondest illusions, 
and that my inconstancy, as he was pleased to call 
my devotion to my ideal Maria, had made him a 
skeptic in love. He seemed to take a cruel pleasure 
in listening to my most harrowing reminiscences, 
and when we dined together always toasted Maria 
with a variety of unfeeling remarks. 

I had never visited the Wilna estates of Count 
Kourasoff, but in the summer of 18 — , being en- 
gaged in making studies of Russian village life, I 
presented myself at Ivanofka. Count Loris was 
at home when I arrived, and was overjoyed to see 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


83 


me. The house was very much like French cha- 
teaux of the best class, and maintained in a state 
of order and repair not always found in Russia. 
Everything showed a generous but wise expendi- 
ture. The village gave evidences of thrift and 
industry. The communal land, as well as that be- 
longing to Count Kourasoff, was under an excellent 
system of husbandry. Instead of the complicated 
agricultural machinery for which the Russian pro- 
prietors have a mania, while' their plows are made 
after the model of those used in the time of Iwan 
the Terrible, I found at Ivanofka that they had 
judiciously improved on their common tools and 
implements. The barley was of a superior order, 
and the cattle were fat and well-shaped. All the 
credit for this state of things was awarded to 
Count Kourasoff. It was he who had given Iwan 
Tiska a horse when his own died of lockjaw ; it 
was he who had paid Mother Karlitch for her flax 
when it was all burned up; it was he who had 
given them seed in the year of the bad harvest. 
In short, the inhabitants of Ivdnofka regarded 
Count Kourdsoff as the general benefactor of the 
human race. 

The only dissatisfied man in the village ap- 
peared to be the parish priest. The contempt in 
which the “ White ” or married clergy are generally 
held is well known, and in this instance the dislike 
of the parishioners was warmly reciprocated ; but, 
in spite of the head-shakings and evident disgust 
of my village friends, I had formed a sort of inti- 
macy with the old fellow, and sometimes amused 


MAID MARIAN. 


84 

myself by listening to his hearty denunciations of 
the souls committed to his charge. Once he said, 
shrugging his shoulders : “ Count Loris is a man of 
sense, but he treats them like rational human be- 
ings, when, to show you how little they deserve it, 
about once a year the howling sickness breaks out 
among them. It begins with some woman whose 
husband has given her an extra beating — -not a 
blow too much, I dare say ” (the priest was ac- 
cused of using this method of persuasion on his 
own wife occasionally) — “and in two days- the 
whole village is howling.” 

“ Well,” I asked, “ what happens then ? ” 

“ I will tell you. The first time it broke out, 
some disguised men — of course / knew nothing of 
it, you understand,” said he, opening his eyes and 
shutting them again with a cunning look — “ took 
seven of these howling devils in the middle of the 
night, and, cutting a hole in the ice of the lake, 
dipped them in two or three times. One of them 
— old Mother Petroff — died the next day, but that 
was no great loss — the village has been twice as 
peaceable ever since.” 

“ The remedy was severe, but does not appear 
to have been effectual,” said I. 

“ Oh, yes, yes ! Now, when they begin to be 
troublesome — that is, more troublesome than 
women usually are — some fine morning they see a 
big square hole cut in the ice, and they leave off 
as suddenly as they began. Women are plagues at 
best,” he continued after a pause of deep reflec- 
tion. 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


85 


“ Well, little father,” said I, still laughing, “ if 
one wishes a picture of the dark side of Russian 
humanity, I know of no one so well fitted to give 
it as you.” 

“ I am indeed well acquainted with it in my 
own parishioners. St. Nicholas help me to abuse 
them ! ” said he, piously crossing himself. 

But there was for me something more interest- 
ing than the village priest or the commune : Count 
Kourasoff was seriously contemplating marriage. 
He ’Scarcely allowed me time to make my modest 
toilet and eat my simple dinner on the day of my 
arrival before I was carried off to see his fiancee . 
He told me she was Mademoiselle Olga Orvieff, 
that she lived at Antokollo,— one of the two fine 
suburbs of Wilna, — and that she enjoyed a virtual 
independence, having as her only companion an old 
aunt quite deaf, nearly blind, and totally incapable. 

“I suppose,” said I on the way to Antikollo, 
“ that Mademoiselle Orvieff is one of those gentle 
creatures with whom life flows — ” 

“As placidly as a canal,” said my friend. 

“I am gratified to hear it,” I replied. “In 
marriage one needs repose.” 

“Exactly,” said Count Loris. 

“ I imagine, therefore,” said I after a pause, 
“she is not one of those superficially gifted 
women who appear to have minds. Perhaps my 
description of my beloved Maria may have in- 
clined your fancy to the same type; and, while she 
embodies my ideas of female excellence, I am sure 
she never read a book through, in her life.” 


86 


MAID MARIAN. 


“Mademoiselle Olga reads, I fear; but I can 
easily break her of that after we are married,” said 
Count Kourasoff gravely. 

“ Is she handsome ?” I inquired. 

“She is not ugly,” was his guarded answer. 

« The shallowness of women makes them easily 
read,” said I; “although I speak with diffidence. 
My knowledge of them is limited : yours, doubt- 
less, is extensive.” 

“ Far from it,” said he with energy; “the more 
I see of them the less I know of them.” 

“ Then what a frightful risk!” I cried. “My 
friend, I would not be in your place for the wealth 
of the empire.” 

“But Mademoiselle Olga has such soft eyes 
and such dark eyelashes! ” said he. “ That com- 
forts me when the recollection of the vagaries of 
her sex casts me down. After all, if we marry at 
all, we must marry a woman — the philosophers 
give us no escape from that." 

“ Too true, my friend ; but the philosophers bid 
us avoid marriage altogether.” 

“ They did not on that account refrain them- 
selves. However, I escaped until my time came ; 
which is all that any of us can expect. Destiny 
can overtake all of us — even you, my gay and 
youthful professor. But I do assure you that 
Mademoiselle Olga has most beautiful eyes.” 

When at last I was presented to Mademoiselle 
Orvieff, I found that she possessed the essence of 
beauty — which is the power to please. Her ap- 
pearance was exquisitely feminine, but there was a 


THE KOURAsOFFS. 


87 

fire in her eyes and a curve in her red mouth that 
showed a spirit beyond her outward softness and 
delicacy. At first I thought her the simplest creat- 
ure I had ever met with ; but I afterward found 
her to be the most complex. This knowledge was 
not arrived at in a day, a week, or a month, but in 
a long period of familiar intercourse. She was a 
beautiful revelation to me ; for the first time I 
comprehended the charm of a fine intelligence in a 
woman. She possessed without knowing it, a cul- 
tivated understanding, but she always appeared to 
me, in her serious moments, like a child playing at 
being wise. She did me the honor to exert all her 
powers of pleasing upon me, while Count Koura- 
soff looked on amused at her adroit cajolery of me 
and her determined effort to win my good opinion. 
She very soon established a remorseless tyranny 
over me under cover of the gentlest and most in- 
sinuating manner. I was her “dearest professor,” 
her “best of friends,” and meantime she held me in 
the hollow of her little hand. Her devotion to 
Count Kourasoff was of the nature of a religion. 
To me, and to all the world but him, she used all 
the flattering wiles and pretty artifices that render 
women charming, but she seemed to feel by a fine 
instinct that she needed but one art with him — to 
be her own true and natural self. 

But the destiny to be loved too much and by 
too many seemed to be Olga’s fate. Among those 
whom her evident preference for Count Kourdsoff 
had not discouraged was General Klapka, com- 
mandant of the garrison at Wilna, and at the same 


88 


MAID MARIAN. 


time one of the richest men in Russia. He was a 
man at all times unscrupulous and dangerous to 
thwart, and a singular complication placed the 
power of inflicting a terrible revenge in his hands. 
Vladimir Kourasoff was stationed with his regi- 
ment at Wilna under a sort of surveillance, and 
General Klapka could add still further to his pain- 
ful and perilous position. He had more than once 
intimated to Count Loris that he held Vladimir’s 
life in his hands ; and this could be readily be- 
lieved, for nothing seemed to impress Vladimir 
with a sense of his danger. He openly and bit- 
terly complained of his banishment from St. Pe- 
tersburg, and his conduct showed equal levity and 
recklessness. 

I was astonished at the tact and boldness with 
which Mademoiselle Olga managed so trouble- 
some and dangerous a lover as General Klapka. 
But Count Loris did not seem disposed to aid her. 
Whatever anxiety he might feel for Vladimir, he 
did not on that account do much toward conciliat- 
ing General Klapka on the occasions — and they 
were not infrequent — when they met at Antokollo. 
I made no doubt that each respected the personal 
courage of the other, but nothing but my friend’s 
coolness under all circumstances and unshaken 
self-possession foiled General Klapka’s evident 
efforts to disoblige him. 

One day Count Loris proposed that we should 
drive over to Antokollo. It was a lovely after- 
noon in August, and we went in an open caleche, 
which we left at the entrance of the grounds. As 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


89 

we walked slowly under the rich and dappled shad- 
ows of the beech-trees, we saw a group before us 
— General Klapka and two aides in brilliant uni- 
form, and Mademoiselle Olga sitting in a rustic 
chair lazily fanning herself and holding a gay pink 
parasol over her pretty bare head. No better foil 
for her youth and loveliness could be imagined 
than General Klapka. He was awkward and stout, 
with purplish moustaches and a suspiciously black 
and luxuriant head of hair. Mademoiselle Olga 
always described him as looking like a wild beast; 
and he certainly had a sort of savage glare in his 
fierce eyes. He did not appear overjoyed to see 
us as we made our greetings, but Olga, who had 
appeared somewhat bored before noticing our ap- 
proach, became all animation. 

The two aides, after politely saluting Count 
Kourasoff and superciliously surveying my plain 
coat, entered into a deeply interesting conversation 
with each other. Thereupon Mademoiselle Olga 
honored me with her particular notice, and, propos- 
ing a walk around the grounds, coolly took my arm, 
leaving Count Loris and General Klapka to pair 
off together. The latter, though not deficient in 
breeding, did not respond very cordially to Count 
Kourasoff’s well-bred efforts at a good understand- 
ing, and perhaps felt the contrast between his 
companion’s graceful figure and his own ungainly 
appearance. But whether they got on well or ill 
appeared to matter very little to Olga : she left 
them to amuse themselves, and chattered on to me 
in her pretty and entertaining manner. 


9 o 


MAID MARIAN. 


The grounds were small but beautifully laid 
out. We presently came to a bridge over a little 
stream, and stopped to watch the water tumbling 
over the rocks at the bottom. Olga, leaning care- 
lessly over the rail, dropped sticks and pebbles 
into the water, and ended by dropping her fan — a 
pretty thing of lace and ivory — after them. Of 
course we each offered to save it, but, with a co- 
quettish imperiousness, she ordered General Klapka 
to the rescue. The General, highly gratified, 
tucked his military chapeau under his arm, made 
his slippery way down the bank, and, stepping 
cautiously upon the stones, reached out for the fan. 
In vain ; it was just a little beyond him. 

“A little farther, General Klapka — only one 
step more,” cried Olga encouragingly. 

“ But mademoiselle, the rocks are wet, and — ” 

“ Ah, Mademoiselle Olga, do not tempt General 
Klapka too far. — Beware of another step, General 
Klapka ! ” cried Count Loris, maliciously. 

Of course General Klapka took the other step, 
but it was of no use ; a mischievous eddy carried 
the fan still farther down. 

“ If you will accept of my services — ” began 
Count Loris, turning to Olga. 

General Klapka raising himself to scowl at his 
impertinent rival, just what all of us had foreseen 
happened; there was a plunge, a loud splash, and 
he was floundering in the water. It was very shal- 
low, and he was on his feet in a moment, but Count 
Loris, with officious politeness, rushed to his rescue, 
literally dragging him out, completely drowning 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


91 


the general’s angry assurances that he did not need 
any assistance by protestations of regret and ear- 
nest inquiries whether he had received any hurts. 
Meanwhile, Olga, standing on the bank, anxiously 
fished for the general’s hat, which she triumphantly 
landed on the point of her pink parasol. 

As soon as he was well out of the water, Gen- 
eral Klapka sent one of his young officers, who 
looked as crestfallen as himself, to order their 
horses ; but, in the little time that elapsed before 
his departure, Mademoiselle Orvieff seemed deter- 
mined, by her endless regrets and apologies, not to 
let him forget his mishap, while, by a singular pro- 
cess of feminine logic, she taxed Count Kourasoff 
with being the sole cause of the accident. He, 
after all, had saved the fan, and bore her reproaches 
with great coolness. When at last General Klapka, 
sulky and discomfited, rode off Mademoiselle Olga 
and the count laughed at him as if they would 
never tire, and seemed to think his misfortune a 
source of boundless amusement; but I began to 
see that there were some tragic elements in this 
comedy they were playing. 

II. 

About this time the Grand Duke Constantine 
was expected atWilna, and great preparations were 
made to receive him; but the revolutionary pla- 
cards which had appeared there, as in every other 
town in the empire, became more numerous and 
audacious than ever. The police, as the case has 


92 


MAID MARIAN. 


always been, showed their boasted efficiency by 
arresting numbers of innocent persons, whom they 
were subsequently obliged to release ; but after 
every arrest the placards became more violent and 
taunting. Several officers of the garrison, even, 
were arrested, but, to my surprise, Vladimir Koura- 
soff was not among them. He had suddenly grown 
prudent ; but I can not say that this change in his 
conduct inspired either his brother or myself with 
any great confidence. Of one thing we were both 
assured, that Vladimir’s rash and frivolous char- 
acter would prevent his being placed in any post 
of responsibility by the revolutionary or any other 
party. Count Loris was deeply attached to him, 
and Vladimir knew very well that his brother’s 
means and influence would be freely used to save 
him from the consequences of his own wrong-doing 
On the morning of the Grand Duke’s expected 
arrival the city was alive with threatening cards 
posted on the walls of the university, the arsenal, 
and Other public buildings. Count Loris and my- 
self paid a visit that morning to Mademoiselle 
Orvieff, and then joined a throng of eager and ex- 
pectant spectators at the palace gates. Vladimir 
too, was there, one of a brilliant group of officers 
who were to receive the Grand Duke at the entrance 
to the palace. The crowd was excited, but good- 
natured, and contained the usual mixture seen in 
Russia on such occasions — priests, moujiks, ladies, 
beggars, and police — all loudly talking about in- 
different things, and below their breath discuss- 
ing the boldness of the placards. 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


93 


“ One was torn down in St, Stanislas Street at 
eight o’clock, and before nine there were dozens 
like it posted all over the town — on the Cathedral 
doors, over the Nikolas bridge, everywhere,” said 
an officer with whom I was conversing. As he 
spoke, I turned and saw Vladimir Kourasoff listen- 
ing to him with a conscious smile on his counte- 
nance. • 

At that moment a droschky appeared at the ex- 
tremity of the long street which the police kept 
clear for the imperial cortege. The horse dashed 
furiously along, evidently running away, while the 
driver held on desperately to the reins. On the 
narrow seat were two moujiks holding on to each 
other, apparently drunk and unconscious of their 
danger. They kissed each other and rubbed their 
beards together, as their habit is in their convivial 
moods ; but I suspected that they were not drunk, 
and perhaps not even moujiks. One of them ap- 
peared to be urging the already maddened horse 
still more. “ Fly, my dushinka ! ” (“ little darling ”) 
he cried, trying to clutch the reins from the fright- 
ened driver. “ Fly like wind and lightning to meet 
our good father Constantine ! ” 

His companion waved a box in his hand. 
“ Fireworks ! torpedoes ! ” he bawled with a yell 
of drunken laughter, “for the good Duke Con- 
stantine ! ” 

The horse, suddenly swerving from his straight 
course, dashed against one of the iron pillars hold- 
ing a cluster of lamps at the palace-gate. There 
was a loud cry as the crash of the droschky and 


94 


MAID MARIAN. 


the explosion of the box of fireworks occurred at 
the same moment, and, while every eye except 
mine was apparently fixed on the spot, I saw 
Vladimir Kourasoff lift up his hand and affix a 
placard to the wall and vanish in the crowd. It 
was done in an instant of time. 

As I saw it I walked off involuntarily in an- 
other direction, and when I turned and looked 
back the throng that had lately been so noisy and 
excited was staring in stupid amazement at the 
bit of paper securely fastened to the wall. 

My first impulse was to seek Count Loris: I 
felt that Vladimir’s fate was sealed — that in that 
vast multitude some one besides myself must have 
seen him. I walked mechanically to the Nikolas 
bridge, and, looking up, saw my friend approach- 
ing, and two men, not in uniform, walking slowly 
and nonchalantly toward him, immediately in front 
of me. We all four met in the middle of the 
bridge. 

One of the strangers laid his hand lightly on 
the count’s arm. “ In the name of the emperor,” 
said he, “ your sword.” 

Count Loris, with a cool smile, unbuckled his 
sword and handed it to him. “ I am now, and al- 
ways, the faithful subject of the emperor’s most 
sacred Majesty,” said he. 

The man, who had hitherto remained silent, ex- 
amining him carefully, said : “ He does not wear 
the uniform of Count Vladimir Kourasoff’s corps.” 

“ That is easily accounted for,” replied his com- 
panion : “ he has a brother who is in the Guards, 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


95 

and a change of uniform is a shallow trick often 
resorted to.” 

“ Come, my friends,” said Count Loris, smiling 
pleasantly, “ do not keep a gentleman and a faith- 
ful officer standing here in this piercing wind.” 

“Come on, then,” said one of his captors. 
“You have plenty of courage: it is well, for you 
will need it all.” 

“ Farewell, my friend ! ” said Count Loris, turn- 
ing to me, and, still smiling, walked off with the 
police officers. 

III. 

I went to Antokollo, to the house where we 
had spent so many happy hours, feeling a kind of 
horror at being the bearer of such tidings. The 
arrest of Count Kourdsoff, in itself a dangerous 
thing, became still more so when I reflected that 
he would be absolutely in the power of General 
Klapka, who, as military governor, had charge of 
all the state prisoners. As for Vladimir, I made 
no doubt that he would improve this chance to 
save his precious self. It would be some hours, 
and possibly some days, before it would be found 
out that they had not captured the real culprit. 

Mademoiselle Olga came in, looking gayer and 
more brilliant than usual. When I told her of her 
lover’s misfortune, this tender young creature ex- 
hibited the utmost courage. But when I expressed 
my indignation at Vladimir’s conduct, she turned 
on me like a young lioness : he was Count Koura- 
soff’s brother, and how dare I so speak of him be- 


MAID MARIAN. 


96 

fore her ? I hastily apologized and added one 
more to my list of the incomprehensibilities in 
woman’s nature. I offered, at any cost, to carry 
the assurances of her faithfulness to Count Loris. 

“ He knows it better than you could tell him,” 
she said, looking scornfully at me. But with her 
woman’s wit she devised a plan by which I could 
communicate with my friend. 

The next morning I presented myself at Gen- 
eral Klapka’s lev£e, and, having obtained a few 
minutes alone with him, I gave him to understand 
that I knew the state prisoner Kourasoff was Loris 
and not Vladimir, and, explaining that I had an 
account which I wished to settle with the former, 
I obtained permission to present it. General 
Klapka was ready enough to believe me one of 
those summer friends who change as seasons 
change, and the fact that a state prisoner could 
not alienate any of his property did not make it 
the less annoying to have claims presented to him. 

General Klapka took me to a window, and, 
pointing significantly to the fortress where the 
prisoners were confined, said : “ I have a question 
to ask of you. Now, if you attempt to deceive 
me, in less than twenty-four hours you will have 
an apartment there.” 

I bowed silently. 

“You are probably aware,” he continued, “that 
I am deeply interested in Mademoiselle Orvieff. 
Have you seen her since Kour&soff’s arrest?” 

“Yes,” I replied; “I saw her immediately after- 
ward.” 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


9 7 

“ Did she express any fear for him or show any 
excitement ? ” 

“ Not in the least,” said I. 

“ Did she endeavor to send any message to 
Kourasoff by you ? Examine your recollection 
carefully, or — ” 

“No,” said I. “I told her I should try to see 
him: I candidly acknowledge that I asked her if 
she had a message to send, and she declined posi- 
tively.” 

He stood gazing thoughtfully on the ground 
for a little while. “ You may go,” he said at length. 
“Count Kourasoff has not at present any money 
at his disposal ” — he smiled as he spoke — “but you 
may get his promise to pay your principal with in- 
terest — with good interest. And remember, my 
friend, if you suspect that the prisoner is not 
Count Vladimir Kourasoff, you will be careful not 
to speak of it: you will find it best to observe my 
— requests.” 

The next day, and many days after, I presented 
myself at the outer fort where Count Kourasoff 
was imprisoned, and, after having been duly 
searched and found to carry nothing with me but 
a huge account-book showing Count Kourasoff to 
be thousands of roubles in debt to me, I was ad- 
mitted to his narrow apartment, where we would 
sit at a little table and figure and dispute by the 
hour. During these apparently stormy interviews, 
when a great deal of information was conveyed to 
him about Olga as well as public affairs, the sentry 
who walked up and down before his open door 
7 


98 


MAID MARIAN. 


cast many angry looks at me, and always ushered 
me out with more haste than civility; for Count 
Loris had managed to engage the affections of the 
soldiers who guarded him as well as everybody 
else’s. My parting assurance to him always was 
that the mines of Siberia would claim him yet; to 
which he would respond by saying that no misfor- 
tunes of his would benefit me or make him pay my 
dishonest account. 

He had another visitor besides myself. Day 
after day a priest, whom I knew to be my friend 
at Ivdnofka, but who was apparently fifty years 
older than in the August before, appeared at Gen- 
eral Klapka’s levee. He seemed so old as to be 
nearly imbecile; but with singular persistence he 
came, always telling some endless tale of the 
wrongs he had suffered at the hands of the Koura- 
soffs, and always demanding to see the supposed 
Vladimir. At last, one day, in a mingled fit of im- 
patience and unusual good nature, General Klapka 
ordered him to be admitted to Count Kourasoff, 
where he talked and mumbled so incoherently that 
the count appeared unable to understand him and 
to be quite worn out with him. However, he con- 
tinued to come at intervals, and his stupidity be- 
came a jest for the soldiers of the guard ; but 
Count Loris understood from his wandering talk 
the exact state of affairs at Ivanofka during his 
absence. 

Meanwhile the city was in a state of excite- 
ment difficult to describe. The arrest of Count 
Vladimir Kourasoff, as was supposed, followed by 


THE KOURAsOFFS. 


99 


that of several other officers and members of fami- 
lies of distinction, created a profound impression; 
but the Government seemed in no haste to bring 
the prisoners to trial, and they were treated with 
extraordinary leniency. There was great surprise 
manifested at the disappearance of Count Loris 
Kourasoff ; but General Klapka did not hesitate 
to say that Count Loris knew enough of his broth- 
er’s schemes to make his absence convenient, if 
not necessary. 

All this time General Klapka was more and 
more devoted to Mademoiselle Orvieff. She 
treated him with an indifference that was not de- 
void of coquetry, but he seemed under a spell. I 
once asked her if she felt no stings of remorse 
when she remembered General Klapka’s real and 
disinterested affection, however ungenerous he 
might be. She gave me a look that was meant to 
wither me. “ If I would sacrifice myself and all 
that I have or could hope for for Loris Kourasoff, 
do you suppose I would hesitate to sacrifice Gen^ 
eral Klapka too ?” she said. 

“ I do not know,” I answered dubiously. 
“ Maria von Spreckeldsen sacrificed me to Herr 
Sachs : I know that much.” 

“ Maria von Spreckeldsen ! ” she said contempt- 
ously; and clasping her hands behind her back, 
like a child saying a puzzling lesson, she came and 
stood before me. “ Do you mean to say — do you 
really mean to say — that the sentiment between 
you and Maria von Spreckeldsen could be called 
love ? ” 


100 


MAID MARIAN. 


Now, I thought this was very unkind of Made- 
moiselle Olga, and showed duplicity as well, for 
she had always professed the deepest sympathy 
for me in regard to my Maria, and a profound be- 
lief in the depth of my feelings. 

“ Come,” said she, blushing, but straightening 
up her slim young figure, “ do you know that when 
one loves as — as — ” 

“As you love Count Kourdsoff,” I said. 

She took his picture from about her neck and 
kissed it for answer. “ Very well, then ; but men 
are so dense ! You think that I love like that tedi- 
ous Maria ; General Klapka thinks he can per- 
suade me to love him; while Count Loris thinks — 
I know not what. My heart is a mystery to every 
one of you, and to myself as well. Look what 
General Klapka brought me yesterday,” she con- 
tinued, producing from a cabinet a picture of him, 
elaborately set in a small gold frame. She was 
clever with her pencil and brush, and she had, with 
childish revenge, touched it up so that the general, 
who was anything but handsome, looked even ug- 
lier than Nature had made him. 

I could not help laughing at the ludicrous 
effect, and, while she held it off at arm’s length, 
she made a contemptuous face at it, besides several 
unflattering remarks ; but she suddenly threw it 
down and burst into sobs and tears ; “ I sometimes 
wonder that I can laugh, for my heart always 
aches — always. I feel that Loris Kourasoff stands 
on the brink of an awful fate. That wretch is ca- 
pable of anything ; he would have him taken out 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


101 


and shot any morning that he discovered we still 
love each other.” 

I tried to comfort her, but could not. I too 
felt a dreadful uncertainty. 

“You may tell Count Loris this for me,” she 
said, drying her tears, “ that I long to see him, 
and if I can not see him by lawful means I will see 
him by unlawful means. I will conspire.” 

I repeated this imprudent speech to my friend, 
who sent her in return a stern command to put all 
thoughts of conspiring for her and for himself out 
of her head. I found she had arranged in her 
mind a very plausible plan, by which she was to 
penetrate to the interior of the fort, and, taking 
his place, suffer him to escape ; but this fine 
scheme was brought to naught by the count’s per- 
emptory orders. 

The weeks dragged slowly along. I had begun 
to feel even a sort of security for my friend, when 
all at once a volcano burst beneath our feet. One 
evening, on returning to the modest apartment in 
which I had lived in Wilna since Count Kourasoff’s 
imprisonment, I found awaiting me a gentleman 
who politely informed me that my presence was 
required at General Klapka’s headquarters. I had 
little to fear for myself, but I felt an alarm for 
those who were so dear to me ; and I had lived 
long enough in Russia to know that the military 
governor of a province can ruin whom he will. I 
followed my companion with a composed counte- 
nance, but a sinking heart. Upon reaching the 
barracks I was ushered into a small room to await 


102 


MAID MARIAN. 


General Klapka’s pleasure, my polite captor re- 
maining with me. To enliven my spirits, he dwelt 
upon the horrors of exile. 

“But, my friend,” I replied, “exile does not 
now mean what it did in the time of the Czar Peter. 
There are whole villages of prosperous inhab- 
itants in Siberia, priests, school-masters, clerks, 
Government employes, all exiles, only the emperor 
prefers them to live in a certain part of his domin- 
ions.” 

“ Ah,” said he, sighing and shaking his head, 
“ they are those who acknowledged their guilt and 
threw themselves on the mercy of the emperor. 
For those who persisted in calling themselves inno- 
cent, the mines — the railways — ” 

“ But if I wished to call myself guilty, of what 
should I accuse myself ? Of trying to get a settle- 
ment of my affairs with Count Kourasoff ? ” This 
view seemed to strike him so forcibly that he left 
me to my own sad fancies. 

The hours dragged on until nearly midnight, 
when I was awakened from a heavy but troubled 
sleep before the stove by a messenger from Gen- 
eral Klapka commanding my presence. I followed 
my guide to a small anteroom, where I saw the 
general at a table in an inner room, reading a 
closely-written paper. He motioned me to enter, 
and, rising, carefully closed the door after me. He 
was simply frightful in his anger. He thrust the 
paper at me, and I began to read it ; it was a mi- 
nute account of Vladimir Kourdsoff’s escape, of 
the true meaning of the visits of the village priest 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


103 


and myself to Count Loris, of Olga Orvi^ff's faith- 
ful devotion to him — even a copy of a few lines 
she had once rashly conveyed to him. 

While I was reading, he had taken his sword 
from the scabbard, and was passing the naked 
blade through his fingers with a sort of murderous 
delight. “ I have you — the tool — and in a few 
minutes I shall have the principal,” was the only 
remark he made to me. 

I seemed to have waited hours, when there was 
a sudden and peremptory knock at the door. Gen- 
eral Klapka rose and opened it immediately. Two 
members of the police and a figure completely en- 
veloped in a large fur cloak stood outside. “Ex- 
cellency, it was the prisoner who knocked so 
loudly,” began each of the police in a breath ; but 
General Klapka, motioning the prisoner to enter, 
abruptly closed the door. 

The room was well lighted, and the person who 
entered, walking boldly forward, dropped the 
cloak, and Olga Orvieff stood revealed. She was 
in a brilliant ball-dress of pale and shining green, 
and pearls gleamed softly on her milk-white neck 
and arms. She made a profound and graceful 
courtesy to General Klapka, adroitly spreading 
out her rich train as she did so. “ I had not looked 
for the pleasure of seeing General Klapka when 
only a few moments ago I was unexpectedly called 
from the ball,” she said with a certain grand air 
that she knew very well how to assume ; then, 
catching sight of me, she suddenly dropped her 
stately manner. “You here, my friend?” she 


104 


MAID MARIAN. 


cried in a tone of laughing familiarity. “ Have 
you been conspiring too ? ” 

“ Mademoiselle Orvieff, allow me to claim your 
attention first,” said General Klapka. I looked 
at her to see if his infuriated presence had made 
any impression on her. If it had, it was only to 
arouse further her fearless spirit. He was still 
nervously feeling the edge of his sword. “You 
spoke just now of conspiring : conspiring may 
bring that white neck of yours into jeopardy,” 
said he, looking as if he would like to try the 
blade on it. 

She drew herself up and arched her proud 
neck. “ Do you threaten me ? ” she said with cool 
scorn. 

For answer he handed her with a low bow the 
paper I had read : “ Read that, and see if I need to 
threaten.” 

She raised it with an air at once careless and 
coquettish, and, after reading a few lines, burst 
out laughing. “We are found out,” she said, turn- 
ing to me, “and General Klapka is vexed, I see, 
because I sometimes sent a tender message to my 
lover.” When she said that, he made a spring at 
her which caused me to jump from my chair; but, 
instead of recoiling, she advanced two steps to- 
ward him, as he stood before her panting and furi- 
ous. “ Yes,” she said in a clear, high voice, “to 
Count Loris Kourasoff.” 

“ Mademoiselle, I implore you — ” I began. 

“ What would you have me do ? ” she said, 
turning contemptuously to me. “ If I am in his 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


105 

power, will anything avail me now ? and if I am 
not in his power, let me say what I please.” 

“Yes, say what you please,” said General 
Klapka in an intense voice: “it will only bring his 
destruction a little nearer. If Count — if that — ” 

“Do not dare to speak Count Kourasoff’s 
name before me ! ” she cried. 

If a man like General Klapka could be cowed 
by anything, he might be said to have quailed 
under her voice and presence ; she spoke distinctly, 
and raised her little hand as she advanced nearer 
him. She stopped abruptly and fanned herself. 
“ Really,” she said, “ I am losing my temper. You, 
General Klapka, appear to have lost yours before I 
came.” 

“ Do you know, Mademoiselle Orvieff, what it 
is to be secretly communicating with a state pris- 
oner ? ” said General Klapka, recovering his cool- 
ness a little. 

“ And do you know what it is, General Klapka, 
to have the discipline of the garrison so lax that a 
state prisoner can be communicated with, even 
visited, by his friends and,” laughing and nodding 
her head at me, “ his accomplices.” 

General Klapka could only grind his teeth 
and mutter, “ Communicating with a state pris- 
oner.” 

“ If I could have obtained Count KourasofTs 
consent,” she continued, casting down her eyes 
modestly, “ I could have entered the fortress, and 
with the aid of my friend the village priest have 
actually married the man I love. I wish I had ! ” 


io6 


MAID MARIAN. 


she added, suddenly raising her eyes and opening 
them wide and ‘bright. 

If her object was to exasperate him still further, 
she was succeeding admirably, while he had not 
been able to intimidate her in the least degree. 
“ Count Loris Kourasoff’s life may pay for that 
wish,” he said. 

“You forget,” she replied: “Count Kour&soff 
is only under arrest until his identity is estab- 
lished.” 

“ Let him be brought to trial,” said he, “ and 
for a thousand rubles I can prove' him to be 
Vladimir Kourasoff. You know what the moujiks 
say : “ Money can buy vengeance.” 

She turned slightly pale, and he seemed to 
gloat over this her first sign of discomfiture, 
when at that moment there was a loud commotion 
in the outer apartment and a vehement knock at 
the door. “ Open ! open ! ” cried a dozen eager 
voices. 

When General Klapka opened the door, Vladi- 
mir Kourasoff walked in. He was haggard and 
unshorn — a piteous contrast to the handsome and 
dashing officer he had once been. “ I surrender my- 
self,” said he to General Klapka. “ I am Count Vlad- 
imir Kourasoff. I was in Geneva, safe, when I heard 
of my brother’s arrest. I could not but come back.” 
There was a deep pause. Vladimir continued in 
a collected manner : “ I expected to find my brother 
exiled at the very least, but when I heard that he 
was still imprisoned here I communicated with 
some of his friends in St. Petersburg, who brought 


THE KOURASOFFS. 


107 


the matter before the emperor, and they have his 
personal guaranty that if I surrender myself my 
brother shall be immediately released." 

I confess I never expected anything so noble 
or magnanimous from Vladimir. I sat in speech- 
less astonishment ; General Klapka stared stupidly 
at him like a man in a dream ; while Olga began 
to weep, clinging to Vladimir. 

The next morning it was all over Wilna that 
Vladimir had surrendered himself, and that a tel- 
egram had been received from St. Petersburg or- 
dering Count Loris to be set at liberty, but to re- 
main in the city on a sort of honorable parole un- 
til the trial of the prisoners came off. 

A crowd of his friends and well-wishers, and 
the multitude of idlers whom such occasions al- 
ways collect, assembled at the prison-gates in the 
early afternoon to see him brought forth. My 
friend the village priest and myself stood next the 
gate. 

“ There are the two who so cruelly tormented 
Count Kourasoff during his captivity,” began to 
be whispered around. Taunts and epithets were 
freely bestowed upon us, which soon changed to 
open-mouthed wonder ; for when the great gates 
clanged wide open, and Count Loris with uncov- 
ered head walked forward, we were the first he 
saluted and embraced. 

Vladimir escaped with a sentence of only seven 
years’ exile, which, through his own good conduct 
and his brother’s influence, was considerably short- 
ened. 


io8 


MAID MARIAN. 


Sometimes when I behold the happiness of the 
Count and Countess Kourasoff, I say to myself 
with a sigh. “ This ideal life might have been 
mine with my adored Maria ! ” 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


The colonel was a regular old-time Virginia 
colonel, and still stuck manfully to his blue coat 
and brass buttons and his buff nankeen waistcoat, 
in which quaint costume his clean, handsome, ruddy 
old face never looked handsomer. “ Buff and blue 
is the costume for gentlemen to wear,” the colonel 
would roar; and whatever he said, Yellow Bob 
echoed like a Greek chorus. “ Yes, siree ; dat sut’ny 
is so. / got a blue coat ole marse done gimme.” 
The colonel’s clinging to old days and old ways 
was pathetic. Although he swore forty times a day 
that the war had ruined him, it had not. There was 
enough left for the colonel and madam and the col- 
ony of their old servants, which, as the case fre- 
quently is to this day in Virginia, had settled around 
them. The colonel still had Yellow Bob to swear 
at, and Mrs. Randolph had Patsy to carry the keys 
and make mango pickle and peach cordial. But 
the age had swept them high and dry. They talked 
about things chiefly that happened in the ’fifties, 
and when they got into the ’sixties the colonel was 
k apt to damn the Yankees so profusely that Mrs. 
Randolph was fain to ask him if he remembered 


no 


MAID MARIAN. 


the trip they took to the Springs in ’forty-nine, 
when his pocket was picked of nine hundred and 
eighty dollars; at which the colonel and Yellow 
Bob would exchange winks. Yellow Bob knew 
that a race between Colonel Doswell’s strawberry 
roan and Major Beverly’s Sir Archy had more to 
do with the loss of that nine hundred and eighty 
dollars than Mrs. Randolph— good, simple soul- 
suspected. As for the colonel, the war did not 
make so much difference to him as he fancied. He 
now spent the best part of his life sitting on the 
broad front porch at Drum Point, with a julep 
handy and Yellow Bob within swearing distance, 
and for gentlemen of seventy-five, of the colonel’s 
temperament, there is not much else to do. Horse- 
racing he regarded as out of the question, because 
he no longer had nine hundred and eighty dollars 
to throw away on it whenever he fancied. The 
colonel believed that the present age was utterly 
tame and devoid of incident, and loudly lamented 
that happy, bygone time, when duels, runaway 
matches, racing, betting, and other gentlemanly 
amusements were more in favor than at present. 

“ Damme, sir,” cried the Colonel, fretfully, 
“ nothing happens now ; the young folks don’t even 
run away and get married. A fellow calls another 
fellow a liar, and — dog my cats ! — the other fellow 
goes and sues him in the courts, instead of shoot- 
ing him down in his tracks. Did you ever hear of 
Jack Thornton ? Now that man had some adven- 
tures, sir, in this very county, sir, that ought to be 
written in a book.” 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


Ill 


Yellow Bob here took up the conversation. 
“ Books is fur white folks — dat’s what I say. Dese 
here fool niggers gwine ’long de road ter school 
wid dey spellin’-books is mighty disqualifyin’ ter 
me. Unc’ Isaac Minkins he k’yarn git up and 
preach ’dout a gret big hymn-book in he hand fur 
to read de Bible outen.” 

“ Hold your tongue, you rascal ! ” bawled the 
colonel, highly pleased nevertheless. “ The infer- 
nal free-school system, sir, and the unjustifiable 
application of steam to machinery, has been the 
ruin of this country. As I was telling you, though, 
about Jack Thornton; his land joined mine, and 
we were at William and Mary together. Well, Jack 
was as handsome a fellow as ever stepped, and the 
only man in the county that could beat me after 
the hounds. He had a very pretty property too, 
sir, and as likely a lot of negroes as there was in 
the county, and there was eleven hundred acres in 
the tract at Northend. By Jove ! what jolly bache- 
lor dinners he used to give there! Eh, Bob? I 
got mighty near being kicked by the madam for a 
little turn about we had at one of those dinners. 
That dinner, sir, lasted three days, and I rode my 
horse up the front stairs into Jack’s bedroom. 
Ah, they were days ! ” 

“ An’ missis — she was Miss Sally Ambler den — 
she meet me in de road when I was k’yarin’ ole 
marse home in de chaise, an’ he k’yarn say a word. 
And I say : ‘ Sarvint, missis. Marse, he mighty 
sick ; I feerd he ain’t gwi’ live twell de doctor git 
ter him.' And Miss Sally she bust out cryin’ and 


1 12 


MAID MARIAN. 


jump offn her horse, and come ter de chaise an’ 
look in marse’s face. An’ he ’gin ter holler an’ 
say : ‘ I ain’t sick, my dear ; I’m drunk as a lord — 
hie. An’ ef you knew how jolly I feel, you’d 
go an’ git drunk yerself.’ Missis she turn away, 
an’ — ” 

“ Zounds, sir ! do you propose to tell the se- 
crets of my life, you yellow scoundrel ? But it’s 
true. I had a hard time bringing the madam 
round, and by the Lord I don’t believe I’d have 
done it at all but for Jack Thornton. He swore 
he had made me tight, when, ha ! ha ! ha ! I could 
drink him under the table any day in the week. 
The madam believed Jack, thank God! though. 
Well, as I was telling you, there were some mon- 
strous exciting things in Jack’s life. First, after 
he had settled down to live like a gentleman at 
Northend, old Smithers got his note for ten thou- 
sand dollars to pay some debts of honor Jack had 
made ; and then the doggoned interest began 
piling up, and the black measles broke out among 
his negroes, and he lost nearly half of them, and 
we had a drought two years in succession, and the 
first thing I knew Jack was a bankrupt. Old Scaife 
Beverly, Jack’s uncle, was as rich as a Jew, and 
had thousands of dollars in his secretary ; but the 
old skinflint said something or other about Jack’s 
squandering his patrimony, and Jack swore he’d 
see the old rascal at Davy Jones’s before he’d take 
a cent from him ; so there he was, strapped and 
stranded. Well, about that time there was an elec- 
tion for sheriff, and Jack came to me and consulted 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


1 13 

me about his running for sheriff, and I told him 
he couldn’t do better ; and the fact was, if he 
didn’t get hold of some ready money he’d have to 
sell his negroes, and that was what he mortally 
hated, of course. So the next court day ” (the 
colonel pronounced it cote day) “ he announced 
himself as a candidate. I made a speech myself 
on the court-house green, calling upon the gentle- 
men of the county to support him. I was always 
counted a good speaker, sir, when I was in the 
House of Delegates.” 

“An’ ole missus she was allers a mighty good 
han’ at writin’ o’ de speeches,” chimed in Yellow 
Bob. 

“ You bandy-legged rascal,” shouted the Col- 
onel, angrily, turning very red, “ I’ve a great mind 
to kick you off this plantation, as I’ve had every 
day for forty odd years.” 

Here Bob created a diversion. “ Dat sut’ny 
was a good speech you made fur Marse Jack. Mis- 
sis she was in Richmon’ when dat speech was 
spoke. De folks dey holler an’ whoop, an’ Marse 
Jack Thornton he came up an’ shooken old Marse’s 
han’ and says, ‘ Ef I’m ’lected, I’ll owe it to you, 
Kun’l.’ ” 

“ So he did — so he did,” said the Colonel, some- 
what mollified. “But still ’twas very surprising to 
see Jack Thornton performing the sheriff’s duties 
— and he had no deputy either. I was mightily 
afraid he’d hurt his chances with Virginia Berke- 
ley ; and so it did, because Virginia turned around 
and married Miles Corbin about the time Jack was 
8 


MAID MARIAN. 


1 14 

elected. However, I couldn’t blame her very- 
much. She was only seventeen, and Jack was too 
proud to go to Colonel Berkeley’s house after he 
had lost pretty near everything ; and Virginia aft- 
erward confessed to the madam that she married 
Miles Corbin as much to spite Jack as to please 
her father. Corbin was worth every cent of two 
hundred thousand dollars, and was a mighty prim, 
proper fellow ; never touched a card, didn’t get 
drunk occasionally like a good fellow ; but for all 
his straight-laced ways he had a devil of a temper. 
He used to whip his negroes and then hand round 
the plate in church. Damme, sir, if I didn’t but- 
ton up my breeches’ pocket and look him square in 
the eye whenever he handed his infernal plate to 
me ; and communion Sundays, when I went up to 
the rail with madam, I made him stand out of my 
way, sir, with as little ceremony as if he’d been a 
poodle dog. As for Virginia Berkeley, she was a 
girl of tremendous spirit, and she led Miles Corbin 
a dance, I’m happy to say. She was pretty as a 
picture, too ; wasn’t she, Bob ? ” 

“Pretty!” echoed Yellow Bob — “she was the 
prettiest ’oman ever I seed, scusin’ ’twas missis 
when she was fust married. Miss Ferginny, she 
had black eyes dat f’yarly bu’n a hole in you when 
she look at you. She had the leetlest foot an* 
han’, an’ when she laugh, de dimples come out all 
over her face.” 

“ That’s so ; and her mouth — God bless me ! 
Well, everybody knew that she and Miles Corbin 
wouldn’t pull in harness together, and of course 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


115 

they quarreled like the devil. Virginia was a 
thoroughbred, and she held her head up high ; but 
sometimes, the madam says, Virginia would come 
over here and cry as if her heart would break. 
And the madam soon found out that Jack Thorn- 
ton was the reason of it. I don’t think Virginia 
ever tried to get along with Corbin, although God 
knows no woman could have done it; but they 
hadn’t been married a month before they had it 
hot and heavy.” 

“ Ole Unc’ Snake-root Jim say she throwed a 
kittle of bilin’ water at him fust time he cuss her. 
Maybe dat’s what dey calls hot and heavy,” re- 
marked Bob. 

“Anyhow ugly stories began to get out about 
the way things were going at Corbin Hall. Jack 
Thornton never went there, and kept out of Vir- 
ginia Corbin’s way as much as he could; besides, 
he spent all his time nearly riding over the coun- 
try on sheriff’s duty. He told madam if he hadn’t 
been elected sheriff, and had to keep on the move, 
he’d have blown his brains out sitting down and 
doing nothing at Northend, and thinking about 
Virginia Corbin and her misery. Queer fellow in 
some ways, Jack was. Seemed to like work after 
he got used to it. Anyway it began to be talked 
about that Miles Corbin — the sanctimonious devil 
— had struck Virginia Berkeley more than once. 
Some people did not believe it, because wheri they 
first began to disagree, Virginia had been heard to 
say that if Miles ever laid his hand on her she’d 
kill him — and she would have done it, too. The 


n6 


MAID MARIAN. 


Berkeleys are that kind, though I must say that 
when Virginia had her own way she was as ami- 
able as anybody I ever saw, and if Miles Corbin had 
treated her right she would have made him a good 
wife. But she was one that couldn’t stand whip 
and spur. It happened, though, that Jack Thorn- 
ton one night, coming home from court, found one 
of Corbin’s servants lying at the lane gate of Cor- 
bin Hall with a broken leg. So although he had 
sworn he’d never darken Miles Corbin’s doors, yet 
he had to take the fellow up in his gig and drive 
up to Corbin Hall. It was about eleven o’clock 
at night, and the negroes had all gone to bed, but 
there was a light in the house and a commotion 
going on. The dogs started too, but Jack soon 
stopped them — I never saw a dog in my life that 
wouldn’t fawn on handsome Jack — when, as he 
told me afterward, the hall door flew open, and 
Virginia Corbin rushed out and almost into Jack 
Thornton’s arms. Miles Corbin was right after 
her with his fist doubled up. Jack says he was so 
dumbfounded his head reeled, but he heard Miles 
order her to come back into the house. Then 
Virginia straightened herself up and said, “ I’ll 
come back, because I’m not afraid of you ; but I 
want to tell you now that if ever you raise your 
hand against me I’ll kill you as surely as I live. 
You’ve never driven me to much — I’ve submitted 
and waited and hated — but a very little more will 
drive me to murder.” Then from somewhere in her 
dress she pulled out a pistol. “ Do you see this ? 
Well, I got it for just such an emergency as may 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


II 7 


happen. Jack Thornton, do you hear me?” At 
this Jack jumped at Corbin, and catching him by 
the collar, walloped him until Corbin yelled. But 
he didn’t stop for that; he laid it on as long as 
he could stand it, and then kicked Corbin all over 
the porch. The darky with the broken leg began 
to holler, and that brought all the other negroes 
trooping out ; and at least forty of them saw the 
trouncing. And then Virginia showed them the 
pistol, and told them what she meant to do if he 
ever struck her again. Well, it was hushed up as 
far as possible. Virginia was the proudest woman 
I ever saw; and she asked Jack to keep it quiet. 
And so, while everybody knew that she and Miles 
Corbin had had a big flare-up, nobody exactly 
knew the circumstances. Virginia didn’t even tell 
the madam. 

“ So things went on for a year or two, until one 
night I was waked by hearing that lazy yellow 
fellow yonder tapping at my window. He had 
been to Corbin Hall courting a black girl over 
there, when Corbin died — for he died from a pistol 
wound.” 

“I had jes’ done tell Ma’y Jane — um ! she wei'e 
a gal — good-night,” said Yellow Bob, taking up 
the thread of the story, “an’ I was cornin’ through 
de front yard, when I see de lights bu’nin’ in de 
parlor, an’ heerd Marse Miles Corbin a-yellin’ at 
Miss Ferginny. I was skeered ter go ’way an’ 
skeered ter stay ; but pres’n’y I hear her scream, 
an’ I run in, an’ d’yar was Marse Miles layin’ on 
de sofa wid de blood po’in’ from he hade. Miss 


H8 MAID MARIAN. 

Ferginny she stan’ up lookin’ mighty cur’us, wid 
a smokin’ pistol in her han’. Marse Miles he 
groan, but seem like Miss Ferginny didn’t hear 
’im. I run an’ fotch him a piller, an’ gin him some 
water, an’ den I tuck out ter de quarters ter raise 
de black folks an’ de overseer. Dey all come 
runnin’. De overseer he was de po’est kin’ of po’ 
white trash. He jes’ come right out in cote an’ 
tole ev’ything he see dat night ; an’ de black folks 
dey all stan’ up for Miss Ferginny, an’ ’low dey 
didn’t see nuttin’ ’tall.” 

“ That’s so,” said the colonel ; “ for Virginia 
Berkeley had to stand up in the prisoner’s dock, 
and every negro on the land swore they hadn’t 
seen a pistol, hadn’t heard a quarrel, didn’t know 
anything about it, and that Virginia was the best 
mistress in the world. When I got there that 
night Miles Corbin was dead, the low-lived dog ! 
Virginia met me and the madam. ‘ I didn’t kill 
him,’ she said, as quiet as you please, ‘ although I 
meant to do it. He struck me, and I went and 
got the pistol. He got it from me, and went to 
the table to withdraw the load, when he got nerv- 
ous — he always was a coward — and it went off.’ 
Madam looked at her. ‘ Has he ever really beaten 
you ? ’ she asked. For answer Virginia laughed a 
dreadful kind of a laugh, and, pulling up her 
sleeve, showed her the marks of Corbin’s fingers. 
1 Look here ! ’ she said, showing her a great bruise 
on her shoulder-blade. Madam just burst out cry- 
ing, and put her arms around Virginia. * Thank 
God,’ she said, 1 you didn’t kill him ! ’ You can 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


1 19 

just imagine the commotion It raised; but every- 
thing would have been settled at the inquest if it 
hadn’t been for that dog of an overseer. He and 
Miles Corbin had been associates. A gentleman 
associating with his overseer ! And Mrs. Corbin 
had ordered him out of her drawing-room not long 
before ; so he owed her a grudge, and he paid it. 
Such a talk and hubbub was raised that at the next 
county court the grand jury returned a true bill 
against Virginia Berkeley Corbin for the murder 
of her husband. By George ! ” said the colonel, 
pausing to wipe his forehead. “As for Jack 
Thornton, he nearly went crazy. At first he said 
he’d resign the shrievalty, or kill himself, before 
he’d serve the summons on her. She was staying 
here where madam had brought her the night 
Miles Corbin died. But the Board of Magistrates 
— we didn’t have a tuppence-ha’penny county court 
then, but gentlemen served as magistrates — the 
board sent for him, and reasoned about the trouble 
and expense he’d put the county to if he resigned 
that way without notice; and Mrs. Corbin sent 
him word that the greatest service he could do her 
was to remain in office until after the trial was 
over. So at last he consented, but I thought he’d 
die the day he served the writ on her.” 

The colonel paused again, confronted by the 
dead and gone tragedy. 

“ Good Gord A’mighty ! ” said Yellow Bob, 
slowly and solemnly. “ I ’member dat day, an’ I 
gwi’ ’member it twell judgment day. ’Twas ’bout 
time de fish bite in June. Missis didn’t ’ten’ ter 


120 


MAID MARIAN. 


de chickens er de cows er nuttin’ den. She was 
all time projeckin’ wid Miss Ferginny. Seem like 
she didn’t keer whe’r de tuckey aigs hatch, er de 
cows give milk, er de ’taters come up in de g’yar- 
den, she was so tooken up wid Miss Ferginny. 
When Marse Jack Thornton rid up in de yard dat 
day I never see a man look like him. He was de 
color of a ash-cake ’fo’ de ashes is washed off. 
Miss Ferginny she was settin’ on de po’ch wid ole 
marse an’ missis when he come up de steps. When 
he come to’ds her he stop an’ look like he gwi’ 
drop. An’ ole marse, he go up ter him, an’ missis, 
an’ den Miss Ferginny she walk to’ds him an’ hoi’ 
out her han’.” 

Another long pause came. 

“ I dunno what she say, but ole marse help him 
fin' a paper, an’ he show it ter ’em, an’ dey all git 
in de big kerridge an’ go up ter de cote-house. 
An’ I set on de boot wid Unc’ Torm Driver, an’ 
Patsy she rid on de place fur de trunk behin’. 
Missis and Miss Ferginny was inside, an’ ole marse 
he rid horseback wid Marse Jack Thornton.” 

“ They bailed her to appear at the next term of 
the circuit court,” said the colonel, whose turn it 
was now to tell the story ; “ and half the county 
was there to ask the honor of going on her bond. 
But she only took me and her counsel, Mr. Severn. 
You see everybody knew she was innocent, and 
that it was only the malice of that villain of an 
overseer to get even with her. And the county 
gentry hated Miles Corbin like the devil, and all of 
’em sympathized with his wife. The Board of 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


121 


Magistrates rose when she entered ; and when she 
left the court-room, and when she went down to 
get in my carriage, with me on one side of her and 
madam on the other, the magistrates had got out 
by a shorter way, and were bowing on each side 
of the carriage door. The presiding magistrate, 
in the name of the others, expressed their regrets 
that they were unable to go on her bail-piece, and 
when she drove out of the village, sitting up 
straight in my carriage, and looking like a queen, 
every man she met took off his hat to her, because, 
you see, Virginia Berkeley was a lady, and Miles 
Corbin was the damnedest villain — ” Here the 
colonel went off into a roaring hurricane of pro- 
fanity, which somehow didn’t sound profane, but 
rather as a kind of cordial emphasis to what he 
said. 

“ She stayed here until the trial came off. Of 
course she didn’t see anybody, but the whole 
county called on her. Dang me, but I believe they 
were sorry she hadn’t killed Miles Corbin after all ; 
he deserved it, the dog ! The day of the trial the 
madam and I took her up to the cote-house — ” 

“An’ I rid on de boot wid Unc’ Torm Driver, 
an’ Patsy she sat on de place fur de trunk behin’, 
an’ ole marse rid on horseback with Marse Jack 
Thornton,” echoed Bob the parrot. 

“ When we got to the cote-house you never saw 
such a crowd in your life. We got Virginia in the 
cote-room as quietly as we could, and the madam 
and I sat by her. And when she was asked — ‘ Vir- 
ginia Corbin, what say you, guilty or not guilty ? ’ 


122 


MAID MARIAN. 


she stood up as brave as a lion, and says, just as 
cool as you please, holding up her little hand, 
* Not guilty.’ The people yelled for half an hour, 
and the Court didn’t say a word, and you may be 
sure the sheriff didn’t. 

“The overseer, Higgins, had tried to get a 
lawyer to help the prosecuting attorney, but he 
couldn’t do it, and the prosecuting attorney, I tell 
you, had to be very careful what he said. The 
first witness they put on the stand was Higgins. 
He told a mighty straight story. He told of the 
quarrels between Miles Corbin and his wife, and 
the threats he had heard her make of killing Cor- 
bin if he continued to strike her. Then he told 
about my Yellow Bob waking him up in the mid- 
dle of the night, and of his going up to the house 
and seeing Miles lying on the sofa dying, and 
Miles saying, 1 My wife did this.’ At this there 
was such a thundering row in the court-house that 
the Court was obliged to demand order. But Mrs. 
Corbin remarked, out loud : ‘ That is true. He lied 
about me with his last breath.’ Then the overseer 
identified the pistol as the one he had seen in Mrs. 
Corbin’s hands, and saw on the drawing-room table 
on the night of Miles Corbin’s death. And alto- 
gether it made a bad showing. 

“Yellow Bob was the next witness called for 
the prosecution. It was rich testimony — ha! 
ha! ha!” 

Yellow Bob chuckled gleefully over the recol- 
lection. “ Ev’ything dat ar persecutin’ retorney 
ask me, I say‘Naw.’ ‘ Did you seen Mr. Miles 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


123 


Corbin on de sofa ? ’ ‘ Naw, sah.’ ‘ You waked 

Higgins up at the overseer’s house about mid- 
night?’ ‘Naw, sir.’ ‘But Mr. Higgins says you 
did ? ’ ‘ Mr. Higgins, he ain’t nuttin’ but po’ white 

trash. I doan’ keer what he say. I doan’ know 
nuttin’ ’tall ’bout Marse Miles Corbin dyin’. 
May be he had de ager, an’ he nose bleed, an’ he 
bleed hisself ter de’f.’ ‘ No, he didn’t have any 
ager. He was killed with the pistol.’ ‘Well, den,’ 
I say, ‘may be Mr. Higgins kilt him.’ De jedge 
larf at dat. ‘ But,’ said the persecutin’ retorney, 
‘all the black folks seen you. They’ll swear to it.’ 
* Well, bring ’em up heah, an’ ef dey swar I d’yar 
dat night, I kin swar jes’ as hard I warn’t. 
Dem wuffless black niggers ain’t a-gwine ter disen- 
courage me. Dem Corbin niggers allers was 
mighty wuffless and lyin’. Dey done took a heap 
o’ corn outen our corn-house.’ ‘ Come, now,’ says 
the persecutin’ retorney, ‘ of course you were there 
the night Mr. Corbin died. You gave the alarm.’ 
‘ I didn’t give ’em no sech a thing, I ain’t got no 
’larm ter give. I wish I hedn’t tole ’em nuttin’ 
’tall ’bout it,’ I say, an’ den de persecutin’ retor- 
ney he say, ‘ Now you admit you were there.’ 
‘ Naw, I ’ain’t remit it ; I say ; ‘ I doan know nuttin’ 
but dat Mr. Higgins over yander is de meanest 
white man gwine, an’ Miss Ferginny, she an’ missis 
is mighty thick ; an’ ef she warn’t de right kin’ o’ 
’oman my missis wouldn’t hev nuttin’ ’tall fur ter 
do wid her ; an’ dem black niggers kin swar all 
dey wants dey seed me. I ain’t cipherin’ ’bout 
dem.’ Den de persecutin’ retorney he say, ‘ I can’t 


124 


MAID MARIAN. 


manage the witness,’ and I jes’ walk right outen de 
box dey put me in, an’ when I pass Miss Ferginny, 
I say, i Sarvint, mistis.’ ” 

The old colonel laughed uproariously during 
the recital. 

“ And all the Corbin negroes — they had about 
forty of them up as witnesses — gave about the 
same kind of testimony that my Bob did. None 
of them knew anything, or had seen anything, or 
could be induced to tell anything but lies ; and 
such lies ! Every one of ’em, going out of the 
witness box, would pull his wool and duck his 
head to Virginia ; she certainly had made those 
black people love her, and more than one of her 
fights with Corbin had been about his shameful 
treatment of his negroes. Severn — he’s a first- 
class lawyer — he didn’t cross-examine any of them. 
He said, ‘ May it please the Court, I have but one 
witness, and that is the prisoner herself. I desire 
to put her on the stand that she may tell her own 
story.’ So he gave her his arm and led Mrs. Cor- 
bin to the witness box, where she sat down in a 
chair. You could have heard a pin drop. At first 
she looked around her with a sort of dazed look ; 
it was so pitiful, I saw the foreman of the jury 
look away while he wiped the tears from his eyes. 
Everybody waited until she came to herself like. 
Then she began, in a low voice, to tell it all. She 
looked as pale as a sheet until she got to where he 
struck her for the first time. Then the blood 
poured to her face. ‘ I don’t know how I felt,’ 
said she ; ‘ I wanted to kill him — that was all. I 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


125 


rushed away from him, and then I turned on him. 
He began to back when he saw me advance. I 
told him that I would get a pistol, and if he 
struck me again I would shoot him. Afterward I 
thought I had been to blame. I determined I 
would try and get along better with him. I en- 
dured that man Higgins in my house — I endured, 
O God ! what did I not endure ! and it was the 
same. He would seize me by the throat and choke 
me. That was dreadful, but it wasn’t a blow. At 
last he struck me that other time when Mr. Thorn- 
ton came and beat him.’ At that there was go- 
ing to be the devil of a row — the people hurrah- 
ing for Thornton ; but Jack checked the disturb- 
ance right away. ‘ Then,’ she said, after every- 
thing was quiet, ‘ I felt that it would soon be over, 
one way or another ; either he would kill me or I 
would kill him. On the night he died he said that 
the man Higgins should dine at Corbin Hall the 
next day, and I should appear at the table. I re- 
plied that I would not. He lifted his hand against 
me, and I asked him if he remembered what Mr. 
Thornton had done to him for that. Then he said 
— but I can’t repeat what he said ; it was about 
Mr. Thornton. I went to the bookcase and got 
out my pistol. “ You may say what you like,” I 
said, “but don’t touch me.” After more words he 
came toward me and struck me hard on my shoul- 
der — here. At first the pain stunned me. I held 
the pistol in my hand. He got it from me ; I 
could not resist with one arm. He said he would 
guarantee his life for that one night, and standing 


126 


MAID MARIAN. 


by the table started to unload it. All at once I 
heard it go off, and he staggered to the sofa. I 
don’t remember anything else until Colonel Ran- 
dolph came.’ 

“ When she stopped it was as still as the grave. 
Severn had just said something about the other 
side asking any questions they pleased, when the 
foreman of the jury talked a minute or two to the 
judge, and then, nodding to the jurymen, rose up 
and said, ‘ The unanimous opinion of this jury is 
that the prisoner is not guilty.’ Such a shout ! 
Mrs. Corbin stood up for a minute, and then, with- 
out a word, fell over in a dead faint in Jack Thorn- 
ton’s arms. The crowd made way for him as he 
carried her, as if she had been a baby, out into the 
court-house yard. The madam and I were there 
about as soon as he.’’ 

‘‘An’ me an’ Patsy,” added Yellow Bob. 

“We put her in the carriage — ” 

“An’ Unc’ Torm Driver he lash he horses twell 
dey gallop ev’y foot o’ de way home.” 

“ Hold your infernal tongue ! I’m telling this 
story. When we got her home, of course the re- 
action set in. She had been as brave as a lion all 
the time before, but now she couldn’t hold up her 
head. She just lay on the bed upstairs, with her 
great black eyes staring out of her white face, and 
by George, sir, I thought she was certain to kick 
the bucket. The only thing that roused her was 
when old Scaife Beverly, Jack’s uncle, died with- 
out a will, and Jack got every cent the old cur- 
mudgeon left. Jack had hung around here ever 


A VIRGINIA COLONEL. 


127 


since Mrs. Corbin came, but she wouldn't see him, 
and so months and months went on. At last one 
evening when she was well enough to sit up — it 
was more than a year after the trial — she was 
sitting in the chamber there by the dining- 
room, looking devilish pretty in a white wrapper, 
when — ” 

“ I seen Marse Jack cornin’, and I run round de 
house an’ tole him fur Gord A’mighty’s sake ter 
run in missis’s chamber, kase I was feerd Miss Fer- 
ginny Corbin had done had a fit er sumpin. Co’se 
she didn’t have no fit; I jes’ say it ter git him in 
d’yar, an’ he jump through de winder openin’ on de 
po’ch, and when he see her he say, kinder sol- 
emn, 1 Ferginny ! ’ I never will forgit de way he 
say ‘ Ferginny.’ ’Twas jes’ same as if he’d tole 
her, ‘ I loves you better’n anything in de whole 
wide worlV An’ Miss Ferginny she fall back in 
her cheer, an’ she begin ter cry, and say, ‘ Don’t ! 
don’t ! I’m too wicked to live! ’ when Marse Jack 
he just tooken her in he arms an’ kiss her. I got 
so intrusted wid dem conjurements I jes’ stan’ 
like I done tooken root and look in de winder 
twell arf’ while Marse Jack seen me, an’ he pick up 
ole marse's boot-jack layin’ on de flo’ an’ shy it at 
me. I dodge, an’ it broke missis’s lookin’-glass an’ 
her big red berangium in de flower-pot. He gin 
me a dollar naix day, an’ missis she quile wid him 
’bout breakin’ her lookin’-glass.” Then the colo- 
nel took his turn. 

“ They wanted to go away from the county, but 
I told them they’d better stay where they were 


128 


MAID MARIAN. 


known. It could be lived down sooner here than 
anywhere else. Upon my soul they were the most 
devoted married couple I ever saw. But the 
Thorntons were short-lived people, and Jack died 
at forty. That killed Virginia. She never held up 
her head afterward. I don’t think she lived six 
months. The madam said it was better she should 
die than live. They had no children. And a lot 
of damned, thrifty, industrious Yankees bought 
Northend, and they’ve got a confounded steam- 
plow that frightens all my horses, and they raise 
hay all over the place, and they’ve built an infernal 
ice-house on top of the ground instead of under it, 
and they work the whole place with twenty hands 
instead of sixty, as Jack Thornton did, and make 
more money than all the rest of the county put 
together, and I want a julep — d’ye hear, you yel- 
low rascal ? ” 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


It isn’t necessary for me to tell how I drifted 
into the burnt-cork profession, but I tell you, after 
my preliminary experience of life without burnt 
cork, I was glad enough when I could march up 
to the manager’s office and get my fifteen dollars 
a week for amusing my masters, the public. And 
I was always in such a hurry to get my money — 
we were paid Saturday night, after the perform- 
ance — that I didn’t wait to wash the burnt cork 
off before dropping in for the three five-dollar 
notes which I was certain to get ; for old Sam 
Stacker, God bless him! was full of cranks, and 
always had a particular way of paying us. 

Now* I can’t say I was a brilliant performer. I 
never reached the dignity of interlocutor, to say 
nothing of the envied height of Bones or the end 
man. I just stood a good way back, and pre- 
tended to play on the ’cello — I couldn’t play a 
note, and was nothing but a dummy, but I could 
sing pretty well. I remember how when I came 
to the front I used to bring the house down with 
“ The Nightingale.” I was great on sentimental 
songs. Sam Stacker used to say I was a good all- 
9 


130 


MAID MARIAN. 


round man. I was quick at figures — Sam wasn’t 
. — and I helped him out in his accounts. Then I 
could talk to the theatre managers and write them 
letters. I had had some education and bringing 
up in my pre-Sam Stacker days, and so somehow 
I stayed on with the company, and saw it expand 
from a small variety show into a first-class min- 
strel performance, and old Sam always said it never 
would*have come to that if it hadn’t been for me. 
Of course my salary was raised after a while, and 
I got to putting some of it away for a rainy day. 

Well, as I said, except as a singer, I wasn’t 
good for much at first, but after a while I got . to 
singing first-rate. I took a few lessons now and 
then, and I learned to sing falsetto. I was boy- 
ish looking, although I was twenty-five years old, 
and I used to come out dressed in a low-necked 
pink silk gown, with my hair all curled up, and a 
bunch of puffs on the top of my head and a fan in 
my hand, and sing II Bacio and the Magnetic 
Waltz, as well as plenty of women concert singers, 
so the people said. Those curls, though, on the 
top of my head, used to bother me dreadfully. It 
took Sam and me a good quarter of an hour to get 
them in place, and Sam invariably swore like a 
pirate during the operation. All the time I was 
singing I was thinking about my back hair. 

For a long time a notion had been in my head 
to bring out something original in the show. All 
minstrel shows are alike, and I couldn’t for the 
life of me hit on anything that Sam Stacker didn’t 
say, “ Oh, I seen that down in Tennessee in *58,” or 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


131 

“ That there thing was introduced in New Orleens 
along about ’61,” or something discouraging of the 
kind. At last I did hit upon something. It’s old 
enough now, but it was new then. 

The first thing I wanted to find was a fellow 
about my size and general appearance. He wasn’t 
easy to find. Some of them were as tall as I, but 
too broad ; some were just my shape, but too tall. 
At last I found him. He was pretty nearly my 
double by the time we had made up alike. He was 
exactly five feet seven — my height to a dot — and 
we were the same shape and size, and the calves 
of our legs looked as if we were twin brothers. 
This was a great point, because it was very im- 
portant that our legs should resemble each other 
— and the resemblance was startling. Sometimes 
I could hardly tell which pair belonged to him and 
which to me, but it was all one, as they were both 
remarkably fine-looking pairs of legs, particularly 
in white silk tights and red silk stockings. 

He was a pleasant fellow, too. His first name 
was Ted, and mine was Ned ; our last names are 
unimportant — no matter about mine certainly — 
and we were advertised in the bills as 

THE GREAT VALBELLA BROTHERS ! ! ! 
Unequaled Gymnasts! Exquisite Clog Dancers! 

and a great deal else, which isn’t worth putting 
down here. We certainly made a sensation the 
first night we appeared in our great specialty. It 
was in a big opera house, and every seat was filled ; 


MAID MARIAN. 


132 

and immediately after the first part, “by the whole 
company,” in which Ted and I had stood in the 
background, I sawing away on the big 'cello with 
a stop on it, and Ted making believe to blow the 
clarionet, both of us joining in the singing as oc- 
casion required, our turn came to appear. 

We had rehearsed pretty well, and when the 
big curtain rolled up, and Ted and I bounded out 
on the stage dressed in a kind of jockey costume 
— white silk tights with red silk stockings, blue 
satin shirts with jockey caps of blue and red, and 
jockeys’ whips in our hands — we both felt pretty 
cool. Then we began our clog dance. It was the 
finest kind of clog dancing, I will say, although I 
did part of it myself, and then we introduced a 
new feature, singing while the clogs rattled on the 
floor, and every muscle moving alike. Of course 
it took — the singing as much as the dancing — and 
the people hurrahed and clapped and shouted, and 
wouldn’t leave off until we had gone over it three 
times, and the end man had come on the stage and 
asked permission for the other performers to go 
home and go to bed, as the audience seemed fully 
satisfied with the Valbella Brothers. Then they 
laughed, and we got back to our dressing-room, 
when old Sam Stacker stood ready to hug us 
both. 

But it was at the last scene that our really 
great performance came off. I had a pretty hard 
time making Sam Stacker agree to the expense for 
this act, but as we were playing a two weeks’ en- 
gagement, I finally bullied him into it. It re- 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


133 


quired cutting away some of the flies temporarily, 
and putting in a twenty-foot-square skylight over 
the stage. This skylight opened in two sections, 
and after our second appearance, more clog danc- 
ing and more scientific ground-tumbling, a big red 
balloon descended slowly from the roof. At the 
bottom of this was a double trapeze, and as soon 
as the balloon came within reach the Valbella 
Brothers sprang up — we had to get rid of some 
weights pretty cleverly to make the balloon rise, 
because we couldn’t manage the sand-bags com- 
monly used — grabbed at the trapeze, and per- 
formed the double-trapeze act while the great il- 
luminated balloon rose slowly in the air up — up, 
up, through the roof. Of course on the outside 
two or three fellows stood on the roof, and we 
threw them a rope with which they held on to the 
balloon while we jumped off ; and then the gas 
was let out, and the balloon folded up and laid 
away for the next day, because after the first night 
we had to give two performances — one in the aft- 
ernoon and one in the evening — to satisfy the 
people, and then the “ standing-room only ” sign 
was out before the doors were opened. 

Nothing like the applause on that first night 
was ever known before. The people yelled and 
stamped and shouted, and the ladies waved their 
handkerchiefs. After a considerable time had 
passed, Sam Stacker came to the foot-lights and 
made a speech. Sam never lost a chance of mak- 
ing a speech. He said the balloon couldn’t rise 
more than six miles in the air, and neither one of 


134 


MAID MARIAN. 


the Valbella brothers could swim a stroke, and if 
we were killed he intended to support our wives 
and children during the rest of his natural life. 
We didn’t either of us have a wife and children, 
but Sam didn’t stick at a little thing like that. 
“ Anything to advertise,” was Sam’s motto. “ I’d 
let them durned newspapers say I choked my moth- 
er, beat the ladies in the company every time I got 
drunk, gambled on a coffin, and stole the cents off 
a dead man’s eyes, just to get the ‘ ad.’ ” As Sam 
was the kindest, gentlest, softest-hearted old ruffian 
that ever lived, there was, unfortunately, no chance 
of any of this sort of thing being printed about 
him, and this grieved him sincerely. Meanwhile 
Ted and I were drinking ginger-pop behind the 
scenes, and hearing every word Sam was saying. 
Then Sam made his bow, and retired to find our 
mangled remains, according to his alleged antici- 
pations ; and finding us whole and sound, punish- 
ing the ginger beer, he led us before the curtain, 
and we received what the newspapers the next day 
called “ a magnificent ovation.” And old Sam 
Stacker almost cried with pleasure when he counted 
up the box receipts and took us up to his hotel and 
gave us champagne as if it was Apollinaris water. 

I haven’t said anything all this time about Jen- 
ny Hobbs, but she was a person of great impor- 
tance to me just then. She was a dancer— we had 
quite a respectable ballet troupe with us that year. 
She wasn’t the premilre danseuse , but she stood in 
the front row, and figured in the bills as Mile. 
Celestine Buzac de la Montigny. Sam Stacker 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


135 


himself invented that name. He said it sounded 
fine. It certainly did. She had come to him one 
morning just before we started on the road and 
had asked for work. She was a modest little 
thing, like a plenty of other ballet girls I know ; 
and I found out afterward she supported her bed- 
ridden sister and took care of her little brother out 
of her small wages. Sam was in a hurry, and told 
her I was his representative — a great way he had 
when he didn’t want to be troubled with people; 
so 1 put Miss Jenny Hobbs through her paces, and 
saw she was a pretty good little dancer. We had 
as the premiere danseuse Mile. Dagmar — I don’t 
know what her name in private life was. She was 
a fine dancer, but a stupid creature, without any 
invention, and couldn’t do anything she hadn’t 
been taught ; and in a company like ours, we want- 
ed somebody who was equal to emergencies, which 
Dag — we called her that for short — wasn’t. Jenny 
Hobbs was just that. She turned out a trump. 
Of course we couldn’t bring her forward over 
Dag’s nose, nor have her name very prominently 
billed ; but she didn’t seem to mind that, so long 
as she got an increase of wages, and something 
for her little brother to do along with the com- 
pany ; and she was worth all she got, and more 
too. She never put herself forward, but when 
Dagmar was ill, which at first was about twice a 
week regularly, she took her place, and did almost 
as well — so well in fact that it acted on Dag as the 
advertisements say Hop Bitters acts — it cured her 
right off of several chronic complaints of long 


MAID MARIAN. 


136 

standing, and from being ill half her time (though 
nobody would have suspected it from her robust 
appearance) she got able to dance six nights and 
two afternoons in the week the whole season, and 
never gave Jenny Hobbs another chance to take 
her place. Then Jenny used to suggest little al- 
terations and improvements in the performance 
that Dagmar listened to readily enough, as it al- 
ways brought her bouquets and applause, and Jen- 
ny actually made her think that Dagmar originated 
them herself. 

Well, the night of our first ascent — it wasn’t 
more than thirty-five feet — after the fellows who 
managed the balloon had got it anchored to the 
roof, and we had climbed down and had got back 
in the theatre and made our appearance before the 
foot-lights, and the curtain had been rung up and 
down half a dozen times, and at last the audience 
had dispersed, somebody inquired for Jenny — for, 
of course, nobody in the company ever thought of 
calling her by that ridiculous name Sam had given 
her. Just then her brother, little Jack Hobbs, 
tore upon the stage, yelling for somebody to go to 
Jenny. Of course there was a rush for her dress- 
ing-room, headed by Sam Stacker and Dag, with 
Ted and me following close behind. There lay 
Jenny on the floor in her tights and spangles, her 
head resting uncomfortably on a chair, and ap- 
parently in a dead faint. Nobody knew how long 
she had been there, as Jack, who always came to 
take his sister home after the performance, couldn’t 
explain anything for sobbing and crying, except 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


137 


that after the balloon went up, and Sam Stacker 
came before the curtain and told that astounding 
lie about the balloon being six miles in the air, and 
made his magnificent offer to take care of our wives 
and children that didn’t exist, Jenny had tumbled 
over, screaming, “ Oh, Ted,” or “ Oh, Ned,” Jack 
couldn’t remember which. He hadn’t been able to 
bring her to since. Sam slapped her hands, Dag 
loosened her dress, and I produced a brandy flask, 
which Ted was about to take out of my hand and 
put to her lips, but I preferred doing that myself, 
and quietly pushed him away while I supported 
her head and got a few drops of brandy between 
her teeth. In a few minutes of this vigorous treat- 
ment she recovered, did like all people coming out 
of a fainting fit — sat up, wondered where she was, 
had it all come back to her in a moment, and seiz- 
ing Jack, began to cry hysterically. Jack yelled 
too, so we had a devil of a commotion for a while ; 
but Sam, who had sublime common sense, put an 
end to it by calling a carriage, packing Dag and 
Jack and Jenny in it, and sending them off to Jen- 
ny’s lodgings. Then we went to Sam’s hotel and 
got the champagne before mentioned. 

But somehow, although Sam and the other fel- 
lows — we got together a lot of them — toasted us 
as the Valbella Brothers, and commended forever 
our fraternal alliance, we didn’t feel like brothers. 
We had been the best of friends, but that little 
blubbering rascal Jack Hobbs had planted some- 
thing in our hearts that grew like Jonah’s gourd. 
Which was it, Ted or Ned, that Jenny Hobbs had 


MAID MARIAN. 


133 

fainted about when we went through the roof hang- 
ing on to each other by our teeth, our legs, and 
everything except our hands, and doing the double- 
trapeze act like daisies ? There was the trouble. 
Was it Ted or was it Ned ? I had had a soft place 
for Jenny in my heart for a considerable time, but I 
had determined to wait until I found out whether 
I had any chance or not, and then Ted — Valbella 
I’ll him for want of something better — had come 
along, and seemed to like her too. But I had not 
paid much attention to it until that night. Ted 
was good-looking — I almost groaned when I saw 
how good-looking he was — and a sober, honest, in- 
dustrious fellow to boot. 

Somehow Sam and the other fellows seemed to 
realize that we weren’t quite so brotherly as we 
had been, and ^consequently they enlarged upon 
our fraternal feelings, and represented us as being 
much more deeply attached to each other than we 
ever could have been ; but at last it was all over, 
and we started to walk home — we had lodgings to- 
gether. As we came out into the quiet moonlit 
streets I noticed Ted seemed to expect me to 
speak. 

“ Now see here,” said I, turning to him ; “ you 
know what that little rascal said to-night ? ” 

“Yes, I know,” said Ted doggedly; “and I 
know what Jenny Hobbs said too.” 

“ It's more than anybody else does,” said I, 
feeling as if I wanted to choke him. “ We’d better 
not discuss that now,” said I, presently; “we’ve 
both had some champagne, and I want to think 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


139 

things over, and so do you, perhaps ; so we’ll let it 
rest until to-morrow.” 

“ Just as you like,” said Ted sulkily. 

We went home and went to bed, both rather 
worn out with excitement. Next morning, just as 
we were dressed and going to get some breakfast, 
Sam Stacker came in, boiling. I don’t know who 
could have told him, or whether he guessed at it 
from the way we looked the night before, but he 
evidently knew that something was up between us. 
So he sat right down and gave us a talking to. 
“ Now, boys,” says he, very earnestly, “ you see 
how it is. You’ve made a tremendous hit with 
that there balloon feature. Last night when I came 
out and told that there whopper about the balloon 
bein’ six miles in the air, and broached that benev- 
olent scheme about your families, you ought to 
have heard the women scream ; it done my heart 
good to hear ’em ; two of ’em had to be carried 
out in convulsions, and it would be worth five 
thousand dollars’ advertising if one of ’em was to 
die. Of course if you fellows quarrel, we’ll have 
to drop the Valbella Brothers altogether, and 
that’ll make a difference in your salaries. Besides, 
if you both get to making love to Jenny Hobbs, it 
will upset the whole business, and I’ll just have to 
pay her the penalty in her contract, and get some- 
body else in her place. That’ll be hard on her, 
poor girl, as she’ll lose the best chance she’s had 
yet of getting introduced to the public. I really 
had hoped you two fellows would have kept out of 
difficulties with each other,” continued Sam, groan- 


140 


MAID MARIAN. 


in g. “ I swear there’s but one thing worse than 
quarreling in a theatrical company, and that is love- 
making. Blamed if I don’t post a fine for any man 
in the company that’s caught looking at a woman. 
Love, anyhow, is the durndest, foolishest business 
on top of the earth — no money in it and lots of 
trouble — and here you are two fellows actually 
risking a cut of twenty dollars a week for the sake 
of a petticoat! It’s wicked, I say, and blasphe- 
mous, and it’ll ruin the show business. And here 
you’ve gone and brought the whole infernal bother 
on my head, and I’ve been a good friend to you 
both ; and — and it’s a shame — and — ” 

Sam stopped, almost crying. Neither one of 
us fully believed his threat about parting with 
Jenny, but it would clearly lead to trouble and 
loss of money on all sides if the Valbella Brothers 
came to grief. So it was tacitly understood that 
for the remainder of the season neither one of us 
should say a word to Jenny, and should go on as 
usual ; and afterward each would try his luck with 
the pretty little dancer. Sam Stacker had inti- 
mated privately to me that if we left off our trapeze 
performance he and the rest of the company would 
construe it that I was afraid to risk it with Ted, 
considering the feeling between us, and I think he 
also managed to convey the same idea to Ted, and 
it had its effect on each. Sam swore that he in- 
tended to advise Jenny to marry the trombone, who 
had three wives in various stages of divorce, seven 
small children, and who alternated between the 
show business and that of a professional revivalist. 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


141 


After that we went along as usual, and except 
that we were more than commonly polite to each 
other, nobody would have suspected anything was 
the matter. While we had been friends we often 
had little tiffs ; but after we became enemies — for 
that was what we inevitably became — we were po- 
liter than French dancing masters to each other. 
We didn’t do the balloon-trapeze act everywhere. 
If we only made one-night stands, or if the stage 
was too small, or if the lessee of the house object- 
ed to it, we didn’t have it, but still we had five or 
six weeks of it before Christmas, and Jenny never 
would witness it, but went and hid her face when 
it came off: — so that only made it plainer that she 
liked one of us, but which one nobody could guess. 
It often occurred to me when we were rising slowly 
on that trapeze in front of the foot-lights, doing 
alt kinds of monkey tricks while the people 
yelled and shouted, and the balloon was going 
up into the flies, that Ted could do me a mischief 
that nobody would know anything about after I 
was mashed and bruised out of shape by the fall, 
and I dare say he thought the same of me. Noth- 
ing happened, however, until one night — it was the 
very night before Christmas. Now, excepting the 
bad blood between the Valbella Brothers, I don’t 
believe there was a man or a woman in that com- 
pany who wasn’t at peace and in good-will with 
the others that blessed Christmas Eve. Sam Stacker 
was such a kind, honest, soft-hearted but hard- 
headed old customer that he made quarreling un- 
popular and almost impossible. He had given us 


142 


MAID MARIAN. 


all something that day, and Jenny Hobbs’s present 
was the best of any. I wanted to give Jenny 
something too, but I hardly thought it fair to my 
understanding with Ted. But just before the per- 
formance began, Jenny came to me, smiling and 
blushing very much, and said : 

“I’ve — I’ve got a Christmas gift for you.” 

“ Have you ? ” cried I, delighted. 

“ You’ve been so k — k — kind to me,” she stam- 
mered, “ getting Mr. Stacker to give me an engage- 
ment, and taking Jack along too, and — and — all — 
that. I want you to wear this in memory of a 
friend.” And she held out to me a little ring with 
a coral set in it, and inside, sure enough, was, “ In 
memory of a friend.” Of course I was delighted, 
and I must say I tried to kiss her, but she slapped 
my face, and I went back where Dag and a lot of 
fellows were and showed my Christmas gift, and 
they all laughed and wanted to know when it was 
coming off. I dare say now it wasn’t very gener- 
ous to show it and boast of it but the temptation 
was irresistible, and, besides, it was no breach of 
our engagement. I had made no advances to Jen- 
ny, and perhaps, as I thought a little dispiritedly, 
the mere friendliness of my behavior may have 
been the reason she gave me the ring. But you 
may be sure I kept that impression to myself, and 
was willing to let the rest of the people think the 
whole thing was settled. 

Ted had seen it all, and I knew he was a deter- 
mined fellow, with a devilish temper when he was 
roused, and he had enough to rouse him that night. 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


M3 


When we came on the stage together for our clog 
dancing he was apparently as cool and smiling as 
ever, but I saw danger in his eye. Mine didn’t 
quail, I don’t think ; and as we stood side by side, 
our arms and shoulders touching, while the clogs 
clattered and we sang our best songs full of good 
hits, I knew that the final struggle was coming that 
night, and I knew, too, that it would be on the 
trapeze. Naturally I took fire too, and cared no 
more for breaking up the Valbella Brothers and 
interfering with Sam Stacker’s plans, nor, indeed, 
for anything except that Ted should not get the 
better of me. The jealous devil possessed us both. 
The performance went off first-rate. The Dagmar 
was ill again for a wonder — this time a real bona 
fide illness — and Jenny had to take her place. She 
came out all in clouds of tulle, and danced a ballet 
divertissement called “ La Marguerite,” in which she 
pulled a daisy to pieces to see if she was loved. 
She danced it beautifully, and fairly brought the 
house down, and when she got through she had 
half a dozen bouquets of flowers, and a great big 
trapeze made of flowers was tilted over the heads 
of the orchestra to her. I had had nothing to do 
with it, but she thought I had, and turned to me 
as I stood in the wings and courtesied so prettily 
that it fairly maddened Ted, who saw it all, and 
thought, too, I had sent it to her, and thereby 
broken our agreement. I didn’t choose to explain 
then and there how it was, and the next minute it 
was our turn to go on the stage. 

We got through our part pretty well. Ted was 


144 


MAID MARIAN. 


cool, and so was I. The people applauded tre- 
mendously, and when the red balloon came slowly 
sailing down they almost went wild. As usual, 
when it came just above our heads, we jumped up, 
caught the trapeze, got rid of the weights by 
sleight-of-hand, and went up through the roof, 
vaulting and tumbling over each other. 

In a minute or two we were through the big 
hole in the top. It was then the time for one* of 
us to throw the rope to the fellows who stood 
about on the roof to catch it, and to haul the bal- 
loon back. But instead of throwing the rope — it 
was Ted’s turn to throw it that night — he seized 
it, and gathered it up out of reach of the fellows 
on the roof grabbing for it, and — the balloon went 
flying up into the black sky ! 

It was a murky night, but the moon shone fit- 
fully at intervals. As we shot up from the roof I 
heard a wild cry, and then another, louder and 
wilder, from the people in the street, who saw us 
darting upward to a hideous death. For my own 
part, I don’t remember anything for a while, but I 
clung instinctively to the trapeze and braced my- 
self against the horizontal bars. I could feel that 
we were rushing through currents of air, but the 
balloon was steady, and as soon as I recovered my 
senses at all I looked steadily upward. We were 
going through clouds, and I could feel that Ted 
was crawling toward me on the trapeze. 

At last he got quite close to me. His white, 
desperate face was fearful in the ghastly uncertain 
glare. The moon shone out, and I saw that the 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


145 


small rope connecting with the safety-valve was 
fastened around his wrist. He held it up to me. 

“You understand what this means?” he said. 
“ If I go over, the valve comes open.” 

I understood well enough. 

“Now,” he said, “we can settle about Jenny 
Hobbs.” 

It was cold, and my teeth were chattering, but 
I managed to say : “ It’s all settled, it strikes me. 
We are both dead men.” 

“Not I,” said he. “I have been studying up 
balloons on the sly. I know all about this one. I 
can manage her. Now tell me, will you give up 
Jenny Hobbs? If you don’t — ” He pointed to 
the clouds scurrying beneath us. 

“You are a sneak and a coward,” I said. 
“ We’ve both got to die this Christmas Eve, but 
you’ll meet your Maker a murderer and a suicide.” 

The balloon, it seemed to me, was stationary 
then. He crept closer and closer to me. I could 
see the whites of his eyes. I thought my time had 
come. I could not remember any words of prayer, 
but my soul uttered its inarticulate cry for mercy, 
which God can hear. 

Suddenly the balloon gave a furious lurch, and 
before my very eyes I saw him jerked violently 
backward. I have no clear recollection of what 
happened next. I suppose, with an acrobat’s in- 
stinct, he clutched the bar. But I felt the balloon 
descending with a horrible rush that no human 
being could describe. Then it slacked up, and I 
saw Ted clinging with both hands to the trapeze, 
10 


MAID MARIAN. 


146 

but his legs were dangling frightfully in the air. 
The rope was still tied to his wrist, and the spring 
of the valve had closed. 

It is easy enough for any active young fellow 
to climb on a bar if he has a good purchase with 
his hands ; but the best acrobat in the world, sus- 
pended he knows not how far from the earth, in 
mortal danger and mortal terror, can’t do it. I 
saw that Ted couldn’t. I saw his terrified and dis- 
torted face turned up to mine. I won’t describe 
what I felt in that moment. But in the half dark- 
ness I felt the rope that the balloon had been held 
by slap against my face. I reached up and caught 
it. Then I crawled along the bar to Ted. .1 want- 
ed to save him ; but I also knew, if he let go, the 
valve would come open, and we would both be 
dashed into limitless space. He saw me coming 
toward him. I suppose he thought I meant to 
push him off, for he uttered the first loud sound 
I had heard in that awful stillness — a piercing 
scream of anguish. I saw him clutch the bar with 
a wild determination that gave me courage to pro- 
ceed. I made the rope into a big loop, and threw 
it around his body. It caught the first time, and I 
drew it up under his arms. Then he seemed to 
realize that I was trying to save him. I took the 
ends of the rope, and, holding on firmly to the bar, 
wrapped the ends securely around it, and tied 
them, hard and tight. Then I reached over and 
grasped the valve rope, and began to pull it 
gently. 

I suppose the gas in the balloon had been con- 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


147 


siderably exhausted before, for as soon as I 
touched the valve we began to go down frightful- 
ly fast. I closed it up for a few moments, and 
noticed we were descending slowly. I opened the 
valve again the least in the world, and we began 
to go down pretty fast — not so alarmingly fast ; 
but it had flashed through me that perhaps if we 
went too slowly in the beginning the gas would be 
exhausted before we reached the bottom and we 
would be dashed to pieces, and I didn’t understand 
enough about balloons to know that the same 
quantity of gas would carry us the same distance 
fast or slow. Presently I saw a line of light which 
I took to be the river, then the masts of shipping 
in the harbor, then the church steeples, the houses, 
the street lamps. Oh, God ! I heard the cries of 
human voices — so close, so close ! and when we 
were only a few feet from the ground I got dizzy 
and fell — far, far into space — and went to sleep 
before I reached the bottom. 

The next morning was Christmas morning. 
Ah, what a day ! May be people think that pro- 
fessional acrobats haven’t any religious instincts ; 
but I know I went to church that day, and found 
Jenny there, and afterward we took a walk out 
into the country. It was a very happy walk, and 
it was God’s day, and she had screamed “ Oh, 
Ned ! ” after all, the night that Jack made the row. 
This gave me much solid satisfaction. 

Before I got out of my bed that morning (I 
had had a regular fainting spell, and had turn- 


148 


MAID MARIAN. 


bled off the trapeze about ten feet from the 
ground, but had been caught) I opened my eyes 
and saw Ted standing over me. He looked like 
a ghost. 

“ Ned,” said he, “ I can’t talk about it. I can 
hardly think or feel yet; but you understand,” he 
gasped out. 

I thought I did understand, so I held out my 
hand. His hand felt like a lump of ice. Sam 
Stacker was a sight to see. He had the hang of 
the whole thing. Its value as an advertisement 
made him perfectly dizzy with delight, but he was 
wild with misery at the same time, because he 
hadn’t the cheek — and Sam was a cheeky fellow 
too — to propose that the Valbella Brothers should 
continue their performances ; and between admira- 
tion and chagrin he was almost crazy. All that 
day he was like a wild man, and finally, consider- 
ing the Valbella Brothers would discontinue their 
performances immediately, as our reconciliation 
didn’t go the length of acting together again, we 
concluded to appear before the curtain at the close 
of the Christmas performance that night, just to 
please Sam. 

As soon as Sam found it out he got out the 
biggest posters to be had for love or money, say- 
ing we would appear on the stage that night, al- 
though we were both too disabled by the severe 
shock we had received to take any further part in 
the performances. We went, and when the curtain 
rose atthe end of the last act, and we were bow- 
ing, ome on each side of Sam, you never heard 


THE VALBELLA BROTHERS. 


I49 


such a perfectly terrible commotion in your life ; 
and the next instant a party of gentlemen rustled 
out of a box, headed by the mayor of the town, 
and, advancing to the stage, made a long address. 
I didn’t take in what it was about, but at last it 
dawned upon my feeble intelligence that the 
mayor was commending my bravery for rescuing 
my comrade by tying him to the trapeze, and pre- 
senting me with a magnificent gold watch and 
chain. Of course I couldn’t say a word, but Sam 
Stacker returned thanks for me. He said it was 
the greatest occasion of his life, and I believe it 
was. He spoke three quarters of an hour, in a 
voice like a steam calliope, and waving his arms 
up and down like a Dutch windmill. It makes my 
head swim now to think about that speech. After 
it was all over I took Sam aside. 

“ Sam,” says I, “ don’t you know if I hadn’t 
tied Ted to the trapeze he’d have fallen and 
dragged the valve open, and we’d both have been 
killed?” 

“D’ye think I’m a durned fool?” said Sam 
quite fiercely. “Certainly I know it, but I ain’t 
a-going to tell them blooming idiots and lunk- 
heads yonder that don’t know beans from thun- 
der.” 

These were the gentlemen whom Sam had just 
been apostrophizing as the noblest examples of 
human virtue and intelligence he had ever yet 
come across during a long experience with the 
greatest show on earth. 

Well, there isn’t much more to tell. The Val- 


MAID MARIAN. 


150 

bella Brothers partnership was dissolved, but I 
stayed on with Sam, and am at present part pro- 
prietor of the show. 

I forgot to say that Jenny and I were married 
just before the performance that Christmas night. 


THEODORA, 


One morning in April, 1889, all that part of the 
population around Prince’s Gate that was up and 
stirring at seven o’clock, gaped with surprise and 
said to each other, “The McGuckin houses are let.” 
The footmen loitering in the gorgeous vestibules, 
the housemaids lazily straightening their caps as 
they threw wide the silken curtains, the milkmen 
clattering upon their rounds, all regarded with in- 
terest the great granite pile that had stood tenant- 
less since the day the builders and decorators left 
it ten years before. For the McGuckin houses 
were so vast and splendid that living in them would 
have been dear had the rent been thrown in. 
Luckily, there were but two of them. The lack of 
tenants had driven the original McGuckin to suicide 
— but — it never rains but it pours. The tenants that 
had been ten years in coming both arrived the 
same week. One house was taken by Sir John 
Blood, of Blood Hall, Suffolk, nephew and heir of 
the Marquis of Longacre, and the other by an 
American family named March. 

Although Sir John’s w r ealth and position may 
be inferred from the meager particulars already 


152 


MAID MARIAN. 


given of him, yet must the Marches be described 
first. And Theodora March must not only take 
precedence of the nephew and heir of the Marquis 
of Longacre, but of her own family as well — for 
to Theodora had this precedence always been al- 
lowed, although the very youngest scion of the 
house of March. She was slender and supple, and 
had a beautiful head of rich gold hair that made 
an aureole around her pure and sparkling face. 
By one of those freaks, so common in American 
civilization, Theodora, whose ancestors had for 
unnumbered generations sold hardware and cut- 
lery and groceries, and were born and bred to 
trade and barter, looked as if she had all of the 
blood of all of the Howards in her veins. March 
pere, like Napoleon, might have been called the 
first of his family, but Theodora had grown up 
with all the tendencies toward a privileged class 
floating around in American society. She stamped 
her letters with a crest she could almost persuade 
herself her ancestors had borne at the battle of 
Agincourt, and adopted the Earls de la Marche of 
the middle ages as her progenitors. Like many 
others who may be called fugitives from the lower 
middle class, she hated it with indescribable inten- 
sity, and shook her small white fist at it and stoned 
it whenever she got a chance. 

Besides Theodora there was Anne, a pretty 
but incomplete model of Nature’s gorgeous after- 
thought, the younger sister. Theodora was a 
leonine blonde, while Anne was a nondescript. 
Mrs. March, an amiable, obstinate old person, was 


THEODORA. 


153 

the third and last and least interesting of the 
family. 

The Marches had endured for years the no- 
madic existence preferred by many rich Ameri- 
cans. Like the Bedouins of the desert, they had 
moved their belongings from place to place at a 
moment’s notice. But an acquaintance at Hom- 
burg with the Honorable Mrs. Wodehouse had in- 
spired in Theodora a yearning for a London sea- 
son — and Theodora, being the master spirit and 
motor for the March family, promptly transported 
them all to London, and the first week in April 
found them settled in one of the two finest man- 
sions at Prince’s Gate. Meanwhile a great event 
had happened in Anne’s life. One William McBean, 
a lieutenant in a Highland regiment, with one 
thousand pounds to his fortune besides his pay, 
had met Anne on the Continent, and, after falling 
hopelessly in love and communicating the same 
malady to her, was just about exchanging into a 
regiment going to India because he had not the 
courage to ask the rich American girl to marry 
him. Theodora, who had a good heart, and was 
grieved to see Anne pale and distrait , and poor 
William McBean looking like a ghost, homely and 
red-headed at that, took matters into her own 
hands. She made a vigorous sortie on William 
McBean, wormed his secret out of him, laughed at 
his scruples, proposed for him, accepted for Anne, 
and had the satisfaction of seeing two worthy peo- 
ple perfectly happy, and all her own doing too. 
Mrs. Wodehouse laughed at the match ; but Theo- 


154 


MAID MARIAN. 


dora extended her protecting arm over the lovers, 
and, slender and white as that arm was, it was a 
mighty aegis. 

It can not be supposed that the Marches re- 
mained long in ignorance of the name and quality 
of their next neighbor at Prince’s Gate. Within a 
fortnight Theodora had seen Sir John on his bal- 
cony smoking, had heard the click of his billiard 
balls through the open window, while Sir John 
had listened with pleasure to her clear trilling as 
she took her singing lesson. Anne did nothing 
now but sit on a bench in Kensington Palace Gar- 
dens and gaze in rapture on William McBean’s 
honest, ugly face — a gaze which the red-headed 
lieutenant returned with compound interest. The 
sight of their innocent happiness amused and 
pleased Theodora excessively. It was love’s 
young dream with a vengeance. 

One morning Mrs. Wodehouse arrived at the 
Marches’ house in a great flutter. She had got 
cards for them to a grand ball to be given at the 
house of a K. G., K. C. B., S. E. I., and what not, 
and the cards bore the talisman “ To meet H. R. 
H. — ” It was the finest of the very great balls 
of the season, and Mrs. Wodehouse was in high 
feather at the notion of introducing her young 
friends on such an occasion, for Mrs. March had 
thankfully rendered up to her the office of chap- 
eron. The question of a presentation at court was 
wisely deferred until another season. 

“And it’s not improbable, dear,” said Mrs. 
Wodehouse, surveying with admiration Theodora’s 


THEODORA. 


155 

fresh beauty and captivating air, “ that you may 
go as Miladi with — ” 

“ A great big lozenge on my carriage/’ laughed 
Theodora. “I used to think,” she added more 
gravely, “ that Englishmen were pachyderms, but 
upon my word they are the spooniest set — Anne, 
what are you blushing for ? ” 

“ I was thinking of — of — ,” answered Anne, 
turning a yet more fiery red. 

“ Of William McBean,” said Theodora, with 
cruel mirth, “ you know you were. You’re always 
thinking of William McBean.” 

“ My dear girl,” remarked Mrs. Wodehouse 
plaintively to Anne, “ with your opportunities and 
nice looks, and money — you might look higher 
than a lieutenant in a marching regiment. It’s a 
sacrifice, dear — a sacrifice which I — ” 

“ Mrs. Wodehouse,” cried Anne, rising and 
looking at Mrs. Wodehouse quite savagely, “ I in- 
sist that you shall not mention this matter again. 
I’m — I’m not called upon to justify myself to you 
— but I think when a girl marries a man and a 
gentleman — even if he is poor — she does herself 
honor, and although we’ve got money ourselves, I 
feel the greatest respect for a poor gentleman — 
and if he is so disinterested that he almost forces 
her to make the offer herself, it’s no sacrifice — ” 

If a meek and much enduring sheep had turned 
on a hungry wolf, Mrs. Wodehouse could not have 
been more surprised than at Anne’s spirit. But 
Theodora, who rarely permitted Anne to finish a 
sentence, here broke in : 


IS6 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ No, it isn't a sacrifice — even if he has a red 
head and lisps dreadfully. Fortunately, I don’t 
want to marry William McBean myself. I want — ■ 
I don’t know what I want. Not money — I have 
plenty of that.” 

“ I think,” continued Anne quite boldly, “ that 
American girls are seldom mercenary. We have 
our faults, but that’s not one of — ” 

“Yes,” said Theodora, with an air of great 
magnanimity, marching up and down the room, 
“we have our faults, but at least we are not mer- 
cenary, or designing, or mean, or anything of that 
sort. Nor are we headstrong like English girls 
are sometimes — or ungenerous toward each other, 
or given to gossip. We make ourselves agreeable 
abroad, but that does not prevent our making our 
homes little paradises for those we love — and we 
are not a bit conceited.” 

Anne attempted a mild suggestion that Theo 
hadn’t left any faults at all with which American 
girls could be justly charged, but it was ruthlessly 
swept away in a hurricane of merry talk and 
laughter from Theodora about the ball, her gown, 
and all the cheerful, costly things that made up 
the life of Josiah C. March’s lucky daughter. Mrs. 
Wodehouse left, arranging to come to their house 
on the evening of the ball, whence they would 
all go in the March’s carriage and she would re- 
main the rest of the night at Prince’s Gate. 

The night of the ball finally arrived. By one 
of those occult processes so difficult for the mas- 


THEODORA. 


157 


culine intelligence to comprehend, Theodora and 
Anne and Mrs. March found out that Sir John 
Blood was going to the ball too. Many specula- 
tions as to whether he would ask to be introduced 
or not went through the head of this young daugh- 
ter of the great republic, but she said never a 
word. Anne and her mother though prattled in- 
cessantly about Sir John and the ball, to all of 
which Theodora listened with the air of lofty in- 
difference which an American girl assumes where 
men are concerned, and apparently cared no more 
about Sir John Blood than she did about the future 
King of Bulgaria. The March carriage contain- 
ing Mrs. Wodehouse drove up to Prince’s Gate 
about ten o’clock on a bright May evening. At 
the same instant Sir John Blood’s brougham was 
whirled to his door. Mrs. March stood in the 
doorway to enjoy the sight of her nestlings getting 
into the carriage. Mrs. Wodehouse did not de- 
scend. Anne came first, tripping down the car- 
peted steps, looking uncommonly pretty in a blue 
gown. 

“How charming you are, dear!” cried Mrs. 
Wodehouse. 

“ Just wait till you see Theo,” answered Anne 
a little discontentedly. It is hard to be always 
and invariably outshone even when one has an 
angel named McBean to soothe’s one’s self-love. 

At that moment Sir John Blood appeared at 
his own door. He might well have got into his 
brougham and gone, but he delayed a moment or 
two — and in that moment Theodora sailed down 


i 5 8 


MAID MARIAN. 


the steps. A cloud of silver crtpe enveloped her 
and floated far behind her. Her slender form was 
molded into a bodice so simple and yet so ex- 
quisite that it was a poem in satin. Around the 
white pillar of her matchless throat she wore a 
string of pearls, and pearls hung upon the front of 
her corsage and skirt until both seemed sowed 
with gems. Mrs. Wodehouse threw up her hands in 
silent ecstasy. The coachman turned and gaped 
with delight, and so did the footman who shut the 
carriage door after her. 

Not only did Sir John Blood as wall as his 
servants gaze in admiration, but a group of 
ragged urchins began to “hooray,” as the car- 
riage rolled off. Theodora leaned back in her 
corner of the cariiage, enjoying her little triumph 
as only a young and beautiful woman can. Nor 
did the triumph end there. When they ascended 
the grand staircase and entered the ball-room, a 
kind of admiring murmur followed Theodora. 
The whole evening was a repetition of these trivial 
but delicious successes that are dear to every 
woman’s heart. 

The very first person on whom Theodora’s 
eyes rested was Sir John Blood, and half an hour 
had scarcely passed before he came up and asked 
for an introduction. Theodora was surprised to 
see Mrs. Wodehouse receive Sir John with some- 
thing like haughtiness. She barely consented to 
introduce him, and seized the first opportunity to 
whisper in Theodora’s ear agonizingly — “ He’s a 
widower — don’t for Heaven’s sake — dear girl — ” 


THEODORA. 


159 


Theodora thought Mrs. Wodehouse had gone 
suddenly crazy, but she retained her self-possession 
and gracefully returned Sir John’s bow, which was 
a kind of salaam or kowtow. 

“ I have the honor,” he said, “ of living next to 
Miss March.” 

Theodora smiled her own dazzling smile at 
this. “Yes,” she replied, “and I want you to 
credit me with great virtue in shutting tight all 
the double windows when I am taking my singing 
lessons so that I shall not make myself odious to 
my neighbors.” 

“Do you call that kind?” said Sir John. 
“ Shall we take a turn and talk about it ? ” 

Mrs. Wodehouse actually put out her hand to 
detain Theodora, but Theo was already beyond her 
grasp. 

She stole a side glance at her companion as 
they moved off, that gave her a much better idea 
of him than she had before. He was very tall 
and certainly distinguished looking, but there was 
something, an intense blackness around the eye, 
and a bluish tinge about the full black beard that 
gave him a sinister look. As they passed through 
the throng of splendid women and thorough-bred 
looking men, a very old man, much braced and 
padded, who stood up stiffly as if he feared he 
could not get up again if he sat down, and whose 
breast was covered by a broad blue ribbon, 
touched Sir John on the arm and mumbled some- 
thing in his ear. Sir John, smiling, said to Theo- 
dora : 


i6o 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ That is the Marquis of Longacre. He wants 
to be presented to you. He is nearly ninety, but 
his eye for beauty is as keen as it was fifty years 
ago.” 

Theodora colored brilliantly. A marquis ask- 
ing to be presented to Josiah C. March’s daughter 
was a big thing, as the defunct March would have 
expressed it — and although Sir John had not said 
a word about his relationship to the old gentle- 
man, yet Theodora knew all about it, having 
studied the subject thoroughly in Debrett. So, 
after taking a turn about the ball-room, they re- 
turned. Sir John presented the marquis, and then 
courteously stepped aside that the old gentleman 
might have her all to himself. 

This was the marquis’s first observation : 
“ Good Gad ! are all the girls in America as pretty 
as you are ? ” 

“ Most of them are a great deal prettier,” 
laughed Theodora, with the ready adaptability of 
her compatriots. 

“ It must be a doosid jolly place, then,” 
chuckled the marquis. 

“ Why don’t you come over and take a look at 
us ? ” archly remarked the sprightly Theo, pur- 
posely oblivious of the marquis’s eighty-five years. 

“ Because I’m eighty-five Eighty-five’s a bore, 
my dear young lady. You don’t believe me, eh ? 
Women never believe a man unless he lies to ’em,” 
remarked the marquis with a wheeze which was 
meant for a sigh. “I often tell my nephew John 
— the one you’re walking with — he won’t have to 


THEODORA. 


161 

wait long to be Marquis of Longacre. It’s a 
pity that none of his wives could live to enjoy 
it.” 

“ His wives ! ” cried Theodora, surprised into 
an exclamation. The marquis seemed disposed to 
confidence. 

“Yes, he’s had three. All died like sheep. 
Something ailed ’em, I dare say. I’m advising him 
to get another, and ’pon my soul, Americans seem 
to be the fashion, he, he ! ” 

A sudden shock not far from disgust thrilled 
Theodora. Three wives already — and he not a 
day over forty-five, apparently. As in a dream 
she heard the marquis’s tremulous old voice saying 
something she only half understood. But in a 
moment or two she pulled herself together. After 
all it was an illiberal prejudice. Should a man's 
domestic misfortune be made a subject of reproach 
to him ? 

In a moment Sir John came to fetch her and 
carried her back to Mrs. Wodehouse. Then that 
lady began the same inexplicably aggressive tac- 
tics toward him again. But it was in vain. He 
was not to be frozen out or bullied, and if ever a 
man was winged at the first shot, it was Sir John 
Blood. He hovered near Theodora, asked permis- 
sion to call, and showed in every way a passionate 
admiration for her. 

But Sir John was not the only one who bit the 
dust, so to speak, in consequence of Theodora’s 
charms. She levied on the Church as well as the 
state. An archbishop, although attended by a 
n 


MAID MARIAN. 


162 

body guard of four hawk-eyed single daughters, 
suddenly found himself deep in a roaring flirtation 
with this new star of the West, and it can not be 
said that his Grace did not hold up his end of the 
line valiantly. The four single daughters stood 
like a Roman phalanx against all widows, whom 
they considered their natural enemies, but it never 
occurred to them to be on their guard against 
anything as young and apparently as artless as 
Theodora — they being unfamiliar with the type of 
the wily American maiden, who, under an exterior 
as harmless as a dove, conceals the wisdom of the 
serpent. In addition to the archbishop, a general 
officer, who had gone through eighteen London 
seasons without a scratch, was slain at Theodora’s 
first fire, and as for the lieutenants, the slaughter 
was fearful. It was a Waterloo, and Theodora was 
a she-Wellington. 

At last the ball was over. Theodora and her 
party were rolling homeward. A certain constraint 
existed among them, and Sir John Blood’s name 
was not once mentioned. When they reached home 
all the ladies scurried into a cozy morning room, 
where a sleepy footman gave them tea. A little 
fire crackled on the hearth, and what will not a 
wood fire do toward unlocking the secret confi- 
dences of the female breast ? Therefore, as Mrs. 
Wodehouse saw Theodora’s tiny satin slippered feet 
seek hers in friendly juxtaposition on the fender, a 
sudden determination seized her to make a clean 
breast of it all. 

“ Theodora,” she said, “ do you know anything 


THEODORA. ^3 

about Sir John Blood, who was so attentive to you 
to-night ? ” 

“ Nothing in the world except that he is very 
distinguished looking, very sensible, and lives in 
the next house,” answered Theodora, debonairly. 

“ And will be Marquis of Longacre when that 
old stuffed penguin dies we saw to-night. I’d 
rather have a poor lieutenant with a Tel-el-Kebir 
medal — ” began Anne, but as usual was promptly 
cut short. This time it was Mrs. Wodehouse who 
broke in, after putting down her cup in some agita- 
tion. 

“ Theodora, do you know Sir John’s domestic 
history ? ” 

“ I know he has had three wives,” answered 
Theo with much indifference, as if three wives were 
the usual allowance. 

“But d-d-do you know how they died?"' cried 
Mrs. Wodehouse, becoming every moment more 
agitated ; “ and the terrible closet in Blood Hall ? ” 
And beginning to wring her hands, she sobbed. 

“ Oh, Theo, Theo — I’ve introduced to you the 
original B1 — I can’t call the dreadful name. But 
he’s the original B-Bluebe — ” 

At this Anne turned deadly pale, and running 
over to her sister threw her arms about Theodora’s 
neck. 

“ Oh, Theo, darling, don’t — don’t have anything 
to do with that dreadful man ! Did you notice the 
color of his beard — it was perfectly blue black! I 
understand, if Theo doesn’t — ” 

Just then a scream resounded behind them. 


MAID MARIAN. 


164 

Mrs. March, in a costume very like the one in 
which Zerlina in the opera dances before the look- 
ing-glass, had entered unobserved, and had heard it 
all and being a highly nervous and excitable per- 

son, shrieked at the terrible insinuation which she 
at once comprehended. Iheodora jumped up and 
gazed around imperiously. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, don’t behave so ! I never 
saw Sir John in my life until to-night, and here you 
are going on as if I were to marry him to-mor- 
row ! ” 

“This is the way he always does,” whimpered 
Mrs. Wodehouse. “ The poor misguided girls fall 
in love with him and marry him — the last one at 
Constantinople — her name was Fatima — something 
or other.” 

“ I dare say,” said Theodora, with wide, bright 
eyes and a voice full of scorn, “ he never married 
an American girl. He wouldn’t find one of them 
so easy to get rid of if he is what you intimate 
he is.” 

“ Theodora,” sobbed Mrs. March, “ I’ll never, 
never give my consent. I don’t care if he is Mar- 
quis of Longacre, or Duke of Longacre, or Prince 
of Longacre, he shall never have my precious 
child.” 

Theodora by this time was walking up and 
down the room with her pretty brows bent. Pres- 
ently she came and stood in front of her mother. 

“Mamma,” said she, “it has just occurred to 
me that perhaps it is my duty — my duty — to marry 
this misguided man. Three women have already 


THEODORA. 


165 

fallen victims to him — but not one was an Amer- 
ican. I believe, from the very depths of my soul, 
that, if a really clever American girl should take 
hold of him, she could make him a model husband. 
Yes,” cried Theodora, warming with her own elo- 
quence, and beginning again to march up and 
down, “look at Sir Roger MacTurk. Wasn’t he a 
perfect terror until he got a wife from New York? 
— and now I believe he would play the concertina 
if Lady MacTurk told him to. And Lord Cantan- 
tram — everybody knows how that soft-voiced little 
thing from the South dragoons him. Oh, I can tell 
you, when an Englishman marries an American he 
doesn’t have any bed of roses. Of course they 
don’t let on — that’s their British pluck — and they 
do fib in the most manly and splendid way about 
it alb — but I think an Englishman married to an 
American girl, and who lives and dies a Christian, 
ought to be painted with a nimbus around his 
head. Yes, I do. Anne, don’t glower at me in that 
way. Now, an Englishman, for all he is so big and 
brave, can’t resist an American girl when she looks 
at him this way.” Here Theodora paused, quite 
breathless, threw up her head, and assumed an air 
that might well make a six-footer shake in his 
shoes. 

These observations seemed to nettle Mrs. 
Wodehouse somewhat. 

“ I remember Colonel Cairngorm telling me — ” 
began she. 

“Colonel Cairngorm!” cried Theodora, throw- 
ing up her hands in a paroxysm of despair that 


1 66 


MAID MARIAN. 


would have made her fortune at the Comedie 
Fran9aise. 

“You needn’t laugh at him,” responded Mrs. 
Wodehouse tartly; and then, with a slight blush, 
she added : “ It is not impossible that — in fact — to 
be very confidential — he proposed last week ; I’ve 
got it under consideration — he is certainly a very 
pleasant person.” 

“ Yes,” agreed Theodora candidly, “ he is a nice 
man — but he does make the greatest gaby of him- 
self when he is in the act of proposing I ever saw 
in my life, and I’ve heard half a dozen girls say 
the same thing.” The look in Theodora’s eye said 
as plainly as could be, “Aha! we are quits for 
what you have said of Sir John Blood”; and for 
Mrs. Wodehouse, the iron had entered her soul. 

“And I think,” continued Theodora, with an air 
of profound philosophy, “ that the art of proposing 
is a gift with some men, and others, like Colonel 
Cairngorm, can’t acquire it even after much prac- 
tice. I recollect he made me perfectly ill on the 
occasion.” 

Mrs. Wodehouse had always thought American 
girls too nimble of wit, and was more than ever 
convinced of it then. 

“Theo,” began Anne, timidly, “for a woman 
who loves, there is a certain glorious kind of slavery, 
says Wil — ” 

Theodora dashed at her sister and good-na- 
turedly boxed her ears and touzled her hair. 

“Anne, if you wish to drive me wild, continue 
to talk about that long-legged lieutenant. William 


THEODORA. 


167 

McBean will be my death, I know he will. Come, 
I’m going. Good-night, everybody. Go to bed, 
Anne, and dream about the McBean person.” And 
she was off, the silver gauze of her train floating 
after her like a comet’s tail. 

All the next day gloom hung over the March 
household. Nobody mentioned Sir John Blood’s 
name. Mrs. Wodehouse left early. It was well 
she did, for at precisely five o’clock, when Theo- 
dora with Mrs. March and Anne were sitting in 
the drawing-room, the footman threw open the 
door and announced : 

“ The Marquis of Longacre and Sir John Blood.” 

The object in bringing the tottering and dod- 
dering old marquis along soon appeared. He at 
once engaged in a senile and simultaneous flirta- 
tion with Mrs. March and Anne, while Sir John 
devoted himself to Theodora. Anne, too, was 
finally drawn into conversation with the pair, and 
so fascinating were Sir John’s manners that she 
quite forgot his character and experiences, and, 
strangely maladroit , made some allusion to Henry 
the Eighth, whom she declared to be a murderous 
old tyrant. 

“Why ?” mildly asked Sir John, and taking up 
the subject of Henry’s killing his wives, he eluci- 
dated it in so masterly a manner that to Anne’s 
amazement she found herself admitting that 
Henry was a much maligned individual, and de- 
served all the credit which he claimed before Par* 


1 68 


MAID MARIAN. 


liament in being willing to assume the fetters of 
matrimony a sixth time for the good of his beloved 
subjects, after five successive disappointments. 

But why prolong the tale ? Theodora was full 
of enthusiasm — Sir John was full of love — and 
proposed within a fortnight. Anne wept, tor- 
mented her lover with her apprehensions for The- 
odora, Mrs. March implored, but Theodora, bright 
and brave, would not be dissuaded. 

“ You’ll see,” she cried. “ Fatima — don’t talk 
to me about Fatima — a great fat creature with no 
spirit at all. I’ll charm him if he’ll let me. Don’t 
you suppose I believe in love as much as every 
other woman does ? But if he undertakes to cut 
my throat — ” 

Shrieks from Mrs. March completed the sen- 
tence. But it was of no use. Theodora’s mind 
was made up and with that young woman, her 
word was law. 

In July, Theodora March and Sir John Blood 
were married at St. George’s, Hanover Square. 
The Archbishop of Canterbury performed the cere- 
mony, the American minister gave the bride away, 
and the Prince of Wales signed the register. The 
settlements were splendid. Sir John voluntarily 
resigned all interest in Theodora’s fortune in case 
he survived her. This affair about the settlements 
gave Theodora, a slight shock, as she turned it 
over in her mind. For the first time she realized 
what it was to marry a man with such a fatal facile 
ity for getting rid of his wives. 


THEODORA. 


169 

“ Pshaw ! ” she said to herself, “ no doubt the 
story books have exaggerated very much. There 
can’t be a whole closet full. And he is such a de- 
lightful person, just like the charming man Heine 
met at the Spanish ambassador’s, who turned out 
to be the devil. However, I’m an American” — 
and at this a mighty exultation filled her breast — 
“ I am from that glorious land of pink and white 
tyranny. Sir John Blood can’t frighten me with 
any children’s stories of a closet full of defunct 
wives.” And so she went on, to Anne’s and her 
mother’s distress and William McBean’s intense 
amusement, who was willing to back Theodora 
against Blue Beard and give long odds any day. 

Immediately after the marriage they went 
abroad, and after some months of travel they re- 
turned to England. Theodora had made but one 
request of her husband since her marriage. It was 
that her sister Anne might meet her in London and 
accompany her to Blood Hall. This Sir John 
granted with the uniform tenderness he had shown 
to her. It was a clear autumn evening when, after 
a rapturous meeting at the station, the sisters had 
traveled down to Suffolk, and for the first time 
found themselves alone in the drawing-room, while 
Sir John smoked his after-dinner cigar on the ter- 
race. 

“ Theo,” said Anne, placing her hands on her sis- 
ter’s shoulders. “ Tell me, darling, are you happy ? ” 

“ Happy ! ” echoed Theodora brightly. “ I am 
the happiest girl in the world, and Sir John is the 
best and kindest of men.” 


i70 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ Except Wil— ” 

“ No, I don’t except anybody. To think you 
and mamma should have disliked him so much. 
Anne, he’s so changed sometimes I doubt if he is 
the real B1 — you know what. But if he is, he’ll 
find out what kindness and firmness together can 
do — and American pluck and the habit of com- 
mand.” 

“ Dear, happy, sweet Theo ! ” 

“And that horrid Mrs. Wodehouse — Anne, he 
has told me all about his wives. They all died per- 
fectly natural deaths. When his last wife died he 
wanted to throw himself in the grave.” 

“ Theo, please don’t talk that way — I wouldn’t 
say such a thing about William for — ” 

“And he says if I die he means to marry 
another American girl.” 

“ Oh, please, please, Theo,” cried Anne in a dis- 
tressed voice. 

Just then Sir John sauntered in, smiling and 
bland, with a request for some music. 

Although Theodora had told Anne the truth 
about some things, she had not told her the whole 
truth. She saw very plainly that Sir John kept 
back more than he told about her predecessors. 
But this story has been a total failure if its readers 
do not yet know that Theodora possessed a superb 
and matchless courage that might well make Sir 
John tremble. Nor had Sir John been married to 
this dauntless creature five months without seeing 
that the was made of sterner stuff than poor Fa- 
tima and the rest. Each had felt, in golden days by 


THEODORA. 


m 

Como’s lake and in starlit Venetian nights, that 
’ sometime or other there would come a tussle for as- 
cendency, and by a sort of tacit arrangement it was 
postponed until their arrival at Blood Hall. When 
Theodora had asked for her sister Anne’s company, 
Sir John had taken it as a confession of weakness. 
Theodora, on the contrary, when she had carried 
her point, felt flushed with victory. Naturally she 
kept a sharp lookout for the closet which Mrs. 
Wodehouse had dwelt upon ; and in forty-eight 
hours after her arrival she had pitched upon it. It 
opened into a pleasant room which Sir John called 
his study, and where he usually spent his mornings. 
The door was of black Spanish oak, beautifully 
carved in early English designs. Theodora had 
mapped out a campaign in which that closet fig- 
ured, and about two weeks after her arrival she 
opened hostilities. 

One stormy December night, Theodora, leaving 
Anne cowering over the drawing-room fire, saun- 
tered off into Sir John’s study, carrying her favor- 
ite poodle in her arms. 

“ Come in,” said he in response to her knock, 
and rising with ready courtesy. “ You’ll excuse my 
continuing my paper,” he remarked, wheeling a 
comfortable chair to the sparkling wood fire for 
her. 

“ Indeed I will not ! ” cried Theodora playfully, 
still holding on to the poodle, and taking the paper 
out of his hands almost before he knew it. 

Sir John frowned and then smiled. His Ameri- 


172 


MAID MARIAN. 


can wife had certain ways that baffled him. She was 
always amiable, gay, and affectionate, but she took 
a tone toward him which startled while it amused 
him ; and then her surprising glibness, her humor, 
her propensity to make small, though admirable 
jokes, her way of looking at life from the comic 
side, was astonishing, not to say appalling. Sir 
John wondered sometimes if American men were 
subject to much of this sort of thing. 

“ No,” kept on Theodora, with a pretty grimace, 
and pinching the poodle, “ you positively shan’t 
read the paper. I want you to talk to me and 
Hector.” 

“What about?” asked Sir John, still half 
frowning. Theodora went up close to him and 
standing on tip-toe, with one arm yet around the 
poodle, leaned forward and putting two rosy fin- 
gers under her husband’s chin said coquettishly : 

“ About that closet over yonder, where people 
say you keep your murdered wives. Don’t we, 
Hector ? ” 

“ Yap ! yap ! ” went the poodle. 

The change that came over Sir John’s face at 
these words was indescribable. He started to his 
feet, his face black with rage, his eyes flaming as 
he seized Theodora violently by the arm. 

“ How dare you ? ” he yelled, almost frothing at 
the mouth. 

“ How dare I ? ” asked Theodora, carefully put- 
ting the poodle in Sir John’s vacant chair. “ Now* 
keep quiet, Hector. Because I want to know and 
I’m going to find out.” 


THEODORA. 


173 


“Very well,” answered Sir John, recovering his 
self-possession. But his cold fury was worse than 
his hot anger. A woman less intrepid than Theo- 
dora would have sunk under the appalling glare of 
his eye. “ Listen, then, and I will tell you. But 
first put down that infernal dog.” 

Theodora had seated herself with Hector in her 
lap, but she thought it wisest to let him go, as it 
was a case where force could be used to her disad- 
vantage. “Just wait a minute,” she said briskly. 
“It’s his bed-time, anyway. I’ll ring for James,” 
and suiting the action to the words, she went for- 
ward and rung the bell like a church warden. 

James appeared in a twinkling, and Theodora 
confided the poodle to his care with many injunc- 
tions. Then she returned to her seat. 

“ Now, madam, I will begin.” 

“ Do,” said Theodora pleasantly. “ I’m dying 
to hear.” 

“You shall be gratified,” answered Sir John 
darkly. “ My first wife was thought to be a very 
amiable and attractive woman. We lived happily 
together until her indiscreet curiosity — mark well 
my words — about that closet, caused her to try the 
lock with a chisel. The chisel slipped and cut an 
artery. She was found weltering in her blood.” 

“ How awkward ! ” exclaimed Theodora, spread- 
ing her handkerchief out in her lap, and examining 
it as if she had never seen it before. “ Of course 
I mean how awkward for you.” 

“ It was a great deal more awkward for her,” 
gloomily remarked Sir John — and continued: 


MAID MARIAN. 


U4 

“ My second, was a gifted creature, but she, 
too, got the devil in her.” 

“ She must have caught it from — hem — ! — 
hem ! ” replied Theodora, coughing gently. 

Sir John glowered at her and kept on. “ She, 
too, longed to see the inside of the closet. Her 
curiosity — do you hear me, madam ? — kept her 
awake, and she spent her nights wandering about 
the house. One night she missed a step at the top 
of the stairs and broke her neck. There was no 
one but myself in the house except the servants.” 

“ Good gracious ! ” cried Theodora. “ How 
frightened you must have been ! ” 

“ My third—” 

“ Oh, yes — Fatima — my latest predecessor — ” 

“ Well, there was an absurd rumor at the time 
of Fatima’s death — she, too, died of curiosity — 
that I had been killed by her brothers. Of course 
the truth came out after a number of unpleasant 
things had been printed about me. My Uncle Long- 
acre advised me to sue the papers for libel. And 
now, madam,” he said with a malignant smile, “do 
you still wish to see the closet ? ” 

“ Of course I do ! ” cried Theodora jumping up 
with the greatest alacrity. “ Now more than ever, 
since it is the remote cause that I am Lady Blood 
and will one day be Marchioness of Longacre. 
Come, hurry up with the key.” 

Sir John gazed at her with a sort of stupefied 
amazement. 

“Rash girl!” he cried. “Do you know what 
you ask ? ” 


THEODORA. 


175 

“ Perfectly,” answered Theodora, coming up to 
him and holding out a little jeweled hand, “ Give 
me the key.” 

“Great Heavens!” shouted Sir John, “this is 
intolerable . God forgive me for marrying an 
American ! I will never marry another. I shall 
have to silence her as I did Fatima.” 

“Give me the key, you old goose ! screamed 
Theodora in his face, and shaking his arm vio- 
lently. 

At that instant their eyes met. Sir John’s were 
blazing with anger, while in Theodora’s there 
shone a fire that — no, it could not be — yes, yes, it 
was — that made something like fear come into 
Sir John’s handsome devilish face. She tightened 
her grip on his arm, and occasionally jerked it up 
and down to emphasize her remarks, while she 
cried : 

“I want that key. You may well say ” (shak- 
ing his arm furiously) “that you’ll never marry 
another American girl. You’ll never have the 
chance” (shake, shake). “When I married you I 
was willing to love you, just as Anne does that 
Scotch angel of hers, but I am not going to put 
up with your hectoring ways like poor Fatima.” 
(Shake.) “You thought I’d be afraid of you — ha! 
ha ! I’m an American girl, you great booby. Don’t 
look at me in that way ” (shake, shake, shake), 
“ but give me the key this instant, or I’ll order the 
carriage and drive to the nearest magistrate and 
denounce you on your own confession ! ” (Shake, 
with variations.) 


176 


MAID MARIAN. 


Sir John’s countenance during this tirade was a 
study. At first a furious, helpless rage, then over- 
powering amazement, followed by a hideous fear, 
and at last an abject, helpless, hysterical breaking 
down. He fell on his knees at Theodora’s feet, 
clutching her gown, and bursting out into wild 
lamentations, he screamed : 

“ Spare me ! Spare me ! ” 

“ The key,” panted Theodora, with a relentless 
smile on her beautiful sensitive mouth. The mis- 
erable man feeling in his trousers’ pocket produced 
a key — with the identical blood stain on it left by 
poor Fatima. 

“ Now,” said Theodora, letting him go and trans- 
ferring the key to her pocket, “ I don’t want to see 
in the closet — no doubt it is a horrid place — but 
I shall keep hold of this and see that you don’t get 
it again.” 

Her contemptuous tone aroused a faint spark 
of the spirit that made the worm turn. He called 
up all his coward’s courage, and, rising to his feet, 
said sullenly : 

“All is not yet over between us.” 

“ Do go away,” replied Theodora scornfully. 
“You bore me to death with your heroics. But I 
think you’ve found out now what it is to be mar- 
ried to an American girl. It’s like a mustard plas- 
ter — wholesome, if not pleasant, and not to be ig- 
nored.” 

Some months after this a large party was as- 
sembled at Castle Longacre, for Sir John Blood 


THEODORA. 


1 77 


was Marquis of Longacre, and she who was once 
Theodora March was now Theodora, Marchioness 
of Longacre. Mrs. Wodehouse was of the party, 
and so was Anne, now Mrs. William McBean, and 
sweeter, prettier, and gentler than ever. Not so 
gentle was she, however, that anybody dared to 
offer her any commiseration on account of her 
long-legged lieutenant, for at the first hint of the 
kind she showed fight so unmistakably, that even 
Theodora was fain to desist. Anne esteemed Will- 
iam as the first man in the world. With a refined 
and noble arrogance she conveyed to the world 
her pride and satisfaction in being the choice of 
such a man — and from being the meekest and most 
lamb-like of girls, developed into a person of con- 
siderable spirit, fully determined to sustain the 
honor of being William McBean’s wife. She was 
not only openly and candidly and deeply in love 
with her lieutenant, whose strong sense and firm 
character were but dimly obscured by his red head 
and his hard features, but she loved the whole clan 
of McBean, was a rampant Jacobite, and went in 
for tartans, cairngorms, bag-pipes, Flora McDon- 
ald, Highland Mary, etc., with an ardor truly 
American. Meanwhile, as Anne became more de- 
terminedly Scotch, William McBean, who was a 
reading fellow, showed a strong leaning toward 
America and republicanism. Thus they were sup- 
plied with something to squabble about — lacking 
which, steady matrimony is apt to become a little 
tedious, it is said. 

The first evening after dinner, before the men 
12 


MAID MARIAN. 


178 

had come up from the dining-room, the ladies gath- 
ered around the drawing-room fire, and about the 
piano. “ Dear Theodora,” said Mrs. Wodehouse, 
going up to her and taking her hand, “ How 
proud I am of you ! When you went into dinner 
on the Prince’s arm, you never looked lovelier. 
Nobody would ever have imagined that you had 
not been born a marchioness.” 

“Yes,” said Theodora with a brilliant smile. 
“You see, here there are only a few marchionesses, 
but with us we are all marchionesses in our own 
esteem.” 

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Wodehouse meditatively, 
“you American peeresses certainly are — er — a — 
remarkable lot — all of you seem to have been born 
in the purple, and every one I’ve seen yet is a red- 
hot Tory.” 

“ That I am,” cried Theodora playfully, stamp- 
ing her pretty foot. “ I believe in my Order, as 
Ouida calls it, the more because it’s all new and 
delightful.” 

“ And a — your husband seems a charming 
man,” continued Mrs. Wodehouse a little tim- 
idly. 

“ Yes,” said Theodora heartily. “ We’ve agreed 
to let by-gones J)e by-gones. He’s thoroughly do- 
mesticated.” 

Just then occurred the little flutter that an- 
nounces an irruption from the lower regions. A 
number of men came in at once, the marquis and 
William McBean among them. Six months of his 
American wife had aged the marquis ten years. 


THEODORA. 


179 

His hair was whitened and his once bold eyes had 
a cowed and uneasy look. 

The talk ran to hunting. The marquis said : 
“To-morrow the Marsh meadow is to be drawn, 
and I can promise you as good sport as is to be 
found in the country. There is an old red fox — * 
“ Dearest,” cried Theodora, softly but reproach- 
fully, from her sofa, “ if you go out to-morrow 
how are you to finish painting the front of my satin 
gown which I am to wear at the hunt ball ? ” 

Everybody had heard her. William McBean 
grinned delightedly, and whispered to Anne, “ Now 
the British lion’s tail will be twisted.” 

The marquis’s face grew three quarters of a 
yard long. He shifted uneasily in his chair. 

“ My love, do you really want that gown ? ” 

“ Of course I do, darling.” 

“Then,” said the miserable marquis, with a 
ghastly assumption of a joke, “ I’ll have to give up 
the Marsh meadow to-morrow. But the next day, 
Wednesday — ” 

“ Oh — oh ! ” cried Theodora with coquettish 
playfulness, pinching his ear, “ don’t you know 
you’ve got to take mamma up to town to do some 
shopping ? Forgetful man ! ” 

“ I really had forgotten,” exclaimed the poor 
marquis, turning very red, “ I’m glad you reminded 
me, my dear.” 

“ And Friday’s the day you promised to take 
Hector to have his picture taken. I couldn’t think 
of trusting my precious poodle to a heartless foot- 
man.” 


i8o 


MAID MARIAN. 


“Quite true,” said the marquis, turning pale, 
“ but Saturday, my pet — ” 

“ Saturday ! ” exclaimed Theodora, “ I have no 
end of things for you to do, dearest. I want you 
to fetch Major Philibeg over from the barracks in 
your trap, and Sunday you must go to church, you 
know, dear love.” 

“ Certainly, my own,” meekly responded the 
once redoubtable man who had killed three wives. 
At this William McBean suddenly darted out of 
the room, and was found half an hour afterward 
haw-hawing in the smoking-room. The spectacle 
of the British lion with his tail between his legs 
seemed to afford Wiliam rapturous amusement. 

The Marsh meadow was drawn the next day, 
but the marquis, transformed from a lion into a 
lamb, was not among the huntsmen. After per- 
forming all of Theodora’s errands, he was allowed, 
as a treat, a game of tennis with the chaplain of 
the castle — for this young American marchioness 
not only had her private chaplain, but would have 
had her private archbishop if she could have had 
her way, so naturally did she take to her privileged 
class. She “ my loved ” and “ my deared ” the 
marquis at a great rate, but Hercules spinning flax 
was a picture of manliness alongside of him. 
Anne’s kind heart disposed her to take his part 
somewhat, but William McBean, who chuckled in- 
cessantly at the state of affairs, encouraged Theo- 
dora to lay on like Macduff. The marquis was 
made to wear goloshes whenever he went out, his 
cigars were docked, and at midnight, just as the 


THEODORA. 


1 8 1 


fun grew fast and furious in the smoking-room, 
Theodora’s own footman would tap at the door, 
and the marquis, with a feeble pretense of “ com- 
ing back after a while ” would disappear. He 
never came back though. William McBean, who 
was the life and soul of the smoking-room, would 
make this hypocritical promise of the marquis’s 
return an excuse for keeping up a rollicking good 
time until unearthly hours of the morning, when 
the last cigar would be smoked, the last story told, 
the last punch brewed. 

Wherever Theodora moved she was accom- 
panied by a suite, consisting of the marquis, the 
chaplain, the footman, and the poodle — and of 
these, the one most under her thumb was the once 
terrible Sir John Blood, whom his own mother 
would scarcely have recognized, so wonderfully 
had his American wife changed, or as Theodora 
expressed it, reformed him. 

On the Sunday, a respectable contingent was 
mustered for service in the castle chapel. The 
marquis complained of a cold, but was nevertheless 
present at both morning and evening service, by 
the side of Theodora, who had her poodle on the 
other side. 

Toward twilight Mrs. Wodehouse peeped into 
the little morning room used by Theodora. By 
the dusky light she saw her seated at the cottage 
piano. She was playing chords softly, while the 
poor marquis, sitting by her with his throat wrapped 
up in flannels was warbling in a hoarse voice but 
with much piety : 


182 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ A consecrated cross I’d bear.” 

Mrs. Wodehouse raised her hands in a paroxysm 
of silent surprise. 

“ A consecrated cross he’d bear ! ” she exclaimed 
presently, in a whisper. “ Well he’s got it — he’s 
got an American wife ! ” 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


“You ain’ never hearn 'bout we-all’s Tubal? 
I thought ev’ybody in de State uv Virginny had 
done heah ’bout Tubal de fiddler.” 

Outside the cabin door the sun of May shone 
bright, beautiful, intoxicating. The old negro held 
his ragged hat in his lap, and sat on the corner of 
the bench that caught the full glare of the sun, un- 
vexed by the dappled shadows of the black-leaved 
poplars. 

“ Tubal he wuz a fiddler, Gord A’mighty knows. 
Nobody never did know how he learn ter play de 
fiddle. Hit mus’ er come ter him natchel, like de 
way de bees sing in clover time, ’kase one day ole 
marse gone ter git he fiddle outen de case, an’ 
’twarn’t d’yar ! You jes’ oughter heah ole marse 
sw’ar ! He allers could cuss an’ sw’ar like a gent- 
mun ; an’ ef he didn’t f’yar smoke, an’ sizzle dat 
day dis nigger is a liar. All day long ole marse 
he r’ar an’ pitch. But when de han’s come in at 
sundown, Yaller Josh, de hade man, he brung 
Tubal ’long to’des de house. Josh he hoi’ little 
Tubal by de collar, an’ Tubal he walk ’long, play- 
in’ de fiddle, an’ he never stop. Josh he haul 


MAID MARIAN. 


184 

Tubal up ’fo’ ole marse, settin’ on de po’ch, an’ it 
tu’n out dat little coon Tubal had been settin’ 
’hine de straw-stacks all day long learnin’ ter play 
on ole marse’s fiddle ! He had done tooken it! 
He had acshilly done tooken it ! To' ole marse 
could git he bref ter bawl out, Tubal he say, 
“ Marster, please, sir; jes’ listen, sir ;’ an’ he strike 
up ‘Forked Deer,’ an he play de same ez any 
morkin* singin’. Old marse he jes’ set d’yar an' 
st’yar at de boy. Den Tubal he teched up ‘Snow- 
bird on de Ashbank,’ an’ he ’gin ter shuffle he 
foots on de po’ch, while ole marse he beat de flo’ 
wid he stick ; but when Tubal come ter play ‘ Kiss 
me sweetly,’ he back-step all de time he playin’ it ; 
an’ fust thing we all see ole marse he jump up an* 
start ter footin’ it, doin’ de back-step, double- 
shuffle, cut de pigeon wing, an’ ev’ything — he an’ 
Tubal jes’ dancin’ a reg’lar breakdown twell de 
po’ch rattle. 

“ ’Twuz a sight, I tell you, wid Tubal sawin’ de 
bow, an’ he an’ ole marse, bofe on ’em, whackin’ 
de groun’. Den ole marse he tooken de fiddle an’ 
he play, an Tubal he dance, an’ d’yar dey wuz ! 

“Arter dat, ole marse buy Tubal a fiddle fer 
hisse’f, an’ Tubal he never do no mo’ wuk, ’scusin’ 
’twas wid de fiddle an de bow. He never wuk in 
de crap. He make ’tense he wait in de house ; but 
Unc’ Daniel, dat wuz de dinin’-room servant, he 
say Tubal warn’ no more use ter him dan de fiddle 
wuz. In dem times, ’fo’ de cullud folks wuz free 


* Mocking-bird. 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


185 


an’ enlightenment, ’twarn’ counted no sin fer ter 
play on de fiddle. Now de niggers know de devil 
iz a fiddler, an’, consequenchical, de chu’ch mem- 
bers doan’ play on nuttin’, ’cep’ ’tis de 'corjion. But 
ez fer ’ligion, Tubal he didn’ have none. Oncet. 
when ev’y nigger on de Shelter plantation was 
seekin’ ’cep’ Tubal, ole marse he beller, “You kin 
all git jes’ ez much ’ligion ez you kin tote, but ef 
I cotch dat fiddlin’ Tubal seekin* an’ cryin’ an' 
prayin’, I lay I’ll wallop de Gorspel outen him ’fo’ he 
know it, genteel an’ quick.’ An’ he would, too 
But Tubal warn’t a seeker, er even a backslider 
Den de white folks in de county got ter sen’in’ fer 
him ter play at de parties, an’ ole marse he gin him 
a ole jinny mule dat th’o’ ev’ybody dat ever did 
try to ride her. Tubal he sot on dat jinny mule 
jes’ a hol’in’ on by he knees, wid he fiddle under he 
chin, an’ he play ‘ Billy in de Lowgrounds ’ fer 
life. Jinny didn’ know what ter make er dat; 
so she ciphered it out, an’ say ter herse’f : ‘ Dis 
heah nigger mus* be Kun’l Boswell’s Tubal. Tain’t 
wuff while ter wrastle wid dat nigger.’ An’ she 
didn’. Ole marse he wuz a widower, an’ he had done 
los’ bofe he chillen, but he had two gran’sons — 
Marse Jack Boswell an’ Marse Page Carter — dat 
live at de Shelter, an’ wuz gwi’ git all ole marse lan’ 
an’ niggers. I doan’ know how ’twuz, but Tubal an’ 
all de black folks got de notion dat he wuz gwi’ 
b’long ter Marse Page when ole marse die an’ de 
niggers wuz ’vided out. Tubal sut’ny did love 
Marse Page, an’ track him same like a dog. Dey 
allers got in mischief toge’er ; an’ Marse Page take 


MAID MARIAN. 


I 86 

a whuppin’ fer hisse’f, but he allers try an’ baig 
Tubal off. 

“ Ole marse he wuz mighty cur’us ’bout some 
things. He want jes’ three hunderd niggers — no 
mo’ ’n’ no less. Sometimes de black folks teck ter 
dyin’, an’ he git down ter two hunderd an’ ninety 
odd. Ole marse he groan an’ moan, an’ say he 
c’yarn wuk de Shelter plantation wid less’n three 
hunderd niggers, an’ ef dey keep on dyin’ in dis 
infernal discontemptuous way, he gwi’ be a bank- 
rup’. Den, fust thing, de black babies would come 
like de blackberries on de bushes, an’ may be he 
have three hunderd an’ fifteen. Den ole marse 
would cuss twell you see de brimstone in de a’r, an’ 
say dat de Shelter place c’yarn’ s’pport mo’ ’n three 
hunderd niggers nohow, an’ ef dey keep on gittin’ 
born, de owdacious niggers would ruin him. 

“ He wuz allers gwi’ co’tin, but he never did. 
He say de plantation want a mistis an’ somebody 
ter look arter de two boys; but he couldn’ go 
co’tin’ in summer, ’kase he had ter go to de 
Springs; an’ in de fall, wid de sellin’ uv de craps, 
an’ de fallowin’ fer wheat, an’ de ’lection, he didn’ 
have no time ; an’ in de winter he had de rheumer- 
tiz ; an’ he ’low dat co’tin’ never did ’gree wid him 
in de spring uv de year. Miss Patty Corbin she 
wait fer him fo’teen year, an’ den she sen’ him 
word ’twuz den er never. Ole marse he sen her 
back word ’twuz never, ’kase he didn’t like ter be 
hurried in he ’rangements. So he didn’ never got 
married ; an’ when he die he jes’ leave all he prop- 
erty ter be ’vided out ’tween Marse Jack an’ Marse 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


IS/ 


Page, ’cep he lef’ Marse Page he silver watch. Ole 
marse tho’t a sight er dat watch. He wouldn’ 
never let no watchmaker tech it, fer he feerd he 
mought spile it; an’ when it got wrong he jes’ 
take a feather an’ some lard an’ grease it hisse’f, 
an’ den ’twuz all right ag'in. 

“Well, all de black folks like Marse Page de 
bes’, an’ all on ’em want ter ’long ter him. Marse 
Jack he mighty quarrelsome an’ ’sputifyin’ ’bout 
things, an’ he say he want Tubal de fiddler. Tubal 
he fall down on he knees ’fo’ Marse Page an’ baig 
dat Marse Page take him ; but Marse Page he had 
done ask fer Mam’ Betsy — dat wuz de mammy uv 
bofe de boys — an’ Marse Jack say he ’titled ter 
Tubal. Marse Page he offer ter buy Tubal right 
outen ; but Marse Jack say no, Tubal wuz de bes’ 
fiddler in de county, an’ he want him. So Tubal had 
ter go wid Marse Jack ; but Tubal he say to we-all, 
mighty solemn like : ‘Marse Jack think he gwi’ 
git a fust-class fiddler. I sw’ar I ain’ never gwi’ 
draw dat bow ez long ez I is Marse Jack’s nigger. 
I done sw’ar it, an’ I done make a cross in de 
ashes 'fo’ I sw’ar.’ 

“ Naix thing we heah, Marse Jack he gwi’ move 
ter de upper country, whar dey doan’ have no 
oshters er crabs er nuttin’ fer ter eat — an’ sho’ 
'nuff ’twuz so. 

“ I never will furgit de day dey all lef’. Dey 
wuz wagons fur all de women an’ de chillen an de 
sick folks an’ de ole folks, an’ de men dey walk. 
Tubal wuz d’yar on de jinny mule, but he didn 
have no fiddle. Marse Page come ter tell ’em 


1 88 


MAID MARIAN. 


good-by. De black folks cry an’ pray an’ sing, 
same like ’twuz a baptizin’, ’twell Marse Page he 
tooken out he white hankercher an’ he cry too. 
Tubal he hoi’ on ter Marse Page, an’ ax Gord ter 
bless him, an’ ax him if he ’member when dey 
useter go fishin’ toge’er, an’ Marse Page t’yar he 
Sunday jacket, so Mam’ Betsy have ter give it ter 
Tubal — he alius like brass buttons — an’ Marse 
Page tell him he ain’ never gwi’ furgit he faithful 
Tubal, an’ lars’ thing Tubal say ter we-all er-cryin’ 
wuz, ‘ I ain’ gwi’ tech dat fiddle, I ain’ gwi’ tech 
dat bow, ez long ez I b’long ter Marse Jack Bos- 
well.’ An’ he didn’. 

“ De years an’ de years pass on. We done hear 
dat Marse Jack he try ter make Tubal play when 
he got him up de country, but Tubal he doan’ 
play. Marse Jack den put him in de corn fiel’, an' 
Tubal he han’s jes’ es sof’ ez Marse Jack’s hisse’f ; 
he have ter hoe de row, but he doan’ play de fid- 
dle. Marse Jack he tell him ef he will play de 
fiddle he kin hire out ter play at de parties, an’ 
make a heap uv money. Tubal he ’low steadfas’ 
he ain’ never gwi’ play no mo’. But de niggers 
say dat in de night-time Tubal he git up an’ go 
’way in de woods, whar he had done hide de fiddle, 
an’ he play twell mos’ mornin’. De folks gwi’ 
’long thu’ de woods moonlight nights hear de 
soun’s floatin’ by, an’ dey git skeered an’ run, an’ 
say ’tis evils ’broad ; but nobody never tole Marse 
Jack. He an’ Marse Page didn’ have nuttin’ ’tall 
ter do wid each ur’r arter dey fell out ’bout Tubal. 
Bofe on ’em got married, an’ Marse Page wife die 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


189 

soon, an’ lef’ him er little gal. She growed up 
mighty pretty, wid gray eyes, sorter like partridge 
eyes, an’ she wuz slim an’ slight. Marse Page he 
live on at de Shelter, but he warn’t like ole marse. 
He wuz sof’ spoken, an’ he read books, an he 
never talk ’bout goin’ co’tin’ no mo’, an’ he wuz de 
best marster in de county. He wuz mighty fond 
o’ Miss Letty, an’ useter say, i Dat little gray-eyed 
gal she got er sperrit.’ 

“Well, arter a while de war broke out at de 
Norf, an’ Marse Page he raise a cump’ny an’ 
went ter de war. He sont Miss Letty off ter 
school, an’ de niggers jes’ stay on de plantation an’ 
work under de overseer. But it didn’t seem like 
nuttin’ prosper no mo’. De craps warn’ no ’count 
— de wheat allers had de rus’ an’ de corn warn’ 
nuttin’ but nubbins, an’ de line fence cotch fire an’ 
bu’n up mos’ all de fencin’ on de place, an’ a storm 
come an’ to’ down mo’n half de house; an’ when 
Marse Page an’ Miss Letty come back arter de 
war, de niggers wuz free, an’ t’ wasn’ nuttin lef’ 
but de lan’. But Marse Page wuz a gent’mun, an’ 
he couldn’ live no way ’cep’ de quality way, an’ 
co’se he had ter borry money fer ter do it; ’sides 
dat, he had done los’ he right arm in de war. So 
fer a year er two things wuz putty much like dey 
wuz ’fo’ de war ; Miss Letty had her piany an’ her 
hoss, an’ marse he cigars an’ he silk stockin’s an’ 
sech. 

“ One de fust things dat happen arter de war 
wuz one day when Marse Page wuz settin’ on de 
po’ch in ole marse’ cheer. He look up, an’ d’yar, 


MAID MARIAN. 


I90 

stan’in’ on de gravel parf, wuz a ole man on a jinny 
mule, an’ he had er fiddle under he arm, an' widout 
sayin’ er word he ’gin ter tune up dat fiddle, an’ he 
start ter play ‘ Kiss me sweetly.’ Marse Page he 
sot right still, an’ de tears rain down he face, an’ 
den de nigger man he hop off’n de jinny mule, an* 
he come up de steps, an’ he say, ‘ Marse Page, I is 
a free man now, an’ I come fer ter be yo’ nigger 
oncet mo’.’ 

“ Marse Page he call out fer Miss Letty, an’ she 
come flyin’, an’ fo’ her par could say a word she 
say, ‘Why, it’s Uncle Tubal.’ She ain’t never seen 
Tubal, but she hearn ’bout him; and den he kiss 
her little han’, an’ Marse Page had he liquor case 
fotch out, an’ he an’ Tubal drink ter ole times, an’ 
Tubal he f’yar make de fiddle talk. Arterward 
Tubal he go right back in he ole house he had 
lived in in ole marse’ time. Tubal didn’t have no 
wife er chillen ; he say he fiddle were all de wife he 
want ; an’ he go back ter de ole ways. No mo’ 
hoein’ an’ wukkin’ for Tubal ; he jes’ sot an’ play 
de fiddle all day. 

“ Dis heah way went on fer a while, an’ mout 
er gone on twell now, but all de po’ white trash 
dat Marse Page had intrusted wid de mortgage on 
de Shelter ’speck him ter pay de money back, an’ 
co’se Marse Page didn’t have it ; ef he had had it, 
he wouldn’ er borried de money nohow. An’, ef 
you will b’lieve dis nigger, dem low-down white 
folks make Marse Page pay all he debts fur ez he 
could, an’ de place wuz sol’, an’ de black folks went 
off, an’ Marse Page an’ Miss Letty had ter go an’ 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


IQI 

live in de overseer’s house. It didn’t have but fo’ 
rooms. Tubal he went wid ’em, an’ he wuk de bes’ 
he kin, but Tubal warn’ no wukker, natchel. Marse 
Page couldn’ do nuttin’, ’kase he didn’t have but 
one arm, an’ bimeby times got wuss an’ wusser, an’ 
hard an’ harder, an’ Miss Letty — she had a fine 
eddication — she had ter go ’way an’ teach school, 
an’ leave Tubal ter take keer uv Marse Page. 

“Now Tubal he useter hoe in de g’yardin an’ 
keep things goin’, but de onlies’ way he could git 
money wuz by fiddlin’. Marse Page he do widout 
all he could, but he wuz er gent’mun, an’ he couldn’ 
do widout much, an’ Miss Letty she sent him all 
she make. An’ den one night he wuz tooken sick 
an’ had a stroke of paradise. He couldn’ move, an’ 
he couldn’ hardly talk, but he call Tubal ter de 
baidside, an’ he say, ‘ Remember, boy, not a word 
of this to your Miss Letty.’ You see, Marse Page 
didn’ have no right arm, an’ he couldn’ wrote wid 
he lef’, an’ Tubal had ’rections fum Miss Letty dat 
ev’y week he wuz ter git somebody ter write ter 
her an’ tell her ’bout Marse Page, an’ she keep on 
sen’in' him her money, but dat wouldn’ been ’nough 
arter Marse Page got he stroke of paradise, ef it 
hadn’ been fer Tubal’s fiddlin’. Now, in dem 
times, dey wuz Yankees ’bout. Dey wuz two or 
three cump’nies dat camp out at de river landin’, 
an’ Tubal useter go over ter de camp an’ play fer 
’em, an’ come back wid er greenback in he pocket. 
Marse Page by dat time didn’ know nuttin’ hardly. 
He jes’ lay d’yar an’ suffer an’ groan. Out at de 
camp dey wuz a orficer — a cap’n — dat wuz mighty 


192 


MAID MARIAN. 


gin’rous ter Tubal, an’ Tubal ax him ef he write a 
letter fer him ter Miss Letty. De cap’n ’gree, an’ 
ev’y week Tubal go over an’ git dat cap’n ter write. 
He warn’ so ole, an’ he were a gent’mun as wuz a 
gent’mun, ef he didn’ have no niggers ’fo’ de war, 
an’ had ter have low-down white folks ter black he 
boots an’ bresh he close. All de time Tubal wuz 
tellin’ de cap’n what ter write, de cap’n wuz larfin’ 
ter hisse’f, an’ pres’ny he look kinder pitiful. Tubal’s 
letters wuz mighty cur’us. Fust he tell de cap’n ter 
write dat all de quality in de county come ev’y day 
ter ’quire arter Marse Page. ’Twuz a lie, an’ Tubal 
say so. ‘ Co’se dat’s a lie, cap’n,’ he say. ‘ Seem like 
de quality folks has clean forgot how Marse Page 
useter live at de Shelter ’fo’ de war, wid thirty hoss- 
es in de stalls, an’ cum’p’ny all de time, an’ cham- 
pagne like water outen de spring. But I c’yarn let 
Miss Letty know dat.’ Den he tell him ter wrote 
Marse Page wuz so spry, an’ he so intrusted in her 
letters, an’ didn’ want no mo’ uv her money ; an’ 
ev’ybody know Marse Page ’ain’ been able ter read 
hardly sence Miss Letty went away. De cap’n 
wroten it all, an’ he gin Tubal a greenback mos’ 
ev’y time he see him, an’ sen’ Marse Page some 
brandy like he been useter, an’ tell Tubal ef he 
want nuttin’ ter come ter him. 

“ One night de cap’n wuz settin’ in he tent 
readin’, an’ Tubal sneak in, lookin’ sorter queer. 
He say in a whisper : ‘ Cap’n, Marse Page is ’mos’ 
gone. He callin’ fer Miss Letty, an’ you mus’ 
wrote Miss Letty fer me, an’ tell her, fer Gord 
A’mighty’s sake, ter come home ez quick ez she 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


193 


kin.’ De cap’n he wroten it right away, an’ he tole 
her all ’bout de boats, an’ how she wuz ter make 
corrections wid de k’yars, an’ could git here by 
Sad’day. An’ Tubal he never lef ’ Marse Page night 
er day. 

“ Well, dat naix Friday night, when de boat stop 
at de landin’, off step Miss Letty : she had done 
make de corrections, an’ got here ’fo’ dey speck her. 
’Twarn’t nobody at de wharf ter meet her, but 
de cap’n wuz d’yar wid he orderly, an’ when he see 
Miss Letty so pale an’ pretty an’ distrussful, he 
went up to her an’ injuced hisse’f, an’ ax ef he 
could be uv any resistance ter her. Miss Letty she 
toss her hade, an’ look him all over wid dem 
gray eyes o’ hern ; she didn’t like no sort o’ Yankees, 
an’ he had he uniform on ; but he was so polite an’ 
respectious, an’ he hoi’ he cap in he h"an’ all de 
time, dat pres’ny Miss Letty kinder softened. An’ 
when he tole her he had done wroten de letters for 
Tubal, an’ he hope she doan’ fin’ her father ez bad 
ez she ’spected ter fin’ him, Miss Letty jes’ broke 
down, an’ cry fit ter break her heart. De cap’n 
tu’n away, an’ didn’ notice her twell she had got 
th’u’ cryin’, an’ den he come back an’ bow like a 
gent’mun, an’ tole her he mus’ take keer on her 
home, dat he horse ’ain’ never had de honor uv 
kyar’in' a lady, but he know she ain’ ’feerd, and kin 
ride on he army saddle. Den Miss Letty smile a 
little bit, an’ de orderly — mighty po’ white trash he 
were — brung up de hosses, an’ de cap’n swung Miss 
Letty on he own hoss — a scrimptious bay hoss with 
black mane an’ tail— an’ de hoss fret a little bit ; 
13 


MAID MARIAN. 


194 

but Miss Letty she sot him, an’ de cap’n he smile, 
an’ say she kin ride like a soldier. Den he got on 
de orderly hoss, an’ off dey went. 

« ’Twuz fo’ miles ter de overseer’s house, an’ 
when de cap’n lef ’ her at de do’, he tell her de camp 
warn’ mo’n harf mile away, an ef she want any 
help, he hope she would treat ’em like frien’s ’stid 
uv enemies, an’ Miss Letty she promise she would. 

“ Marse Page didn’t live a week arter Miss Letty 
got d’yar. She found out dat de quality folks had 
sorter neglec’him, an’ she was so proud andhaugh- 
tical she wouldn’ sen’ fer none on ’em ; an Tubal 
say he doan’ know what she would er done ef it 
hadn’t been fur de cap’n. Co’se, arter Marse Page 
done dade, all de folks pay him deir respec’s, an’ 
heap on ’em come ter see ef dey couldn’ do nuttin’ 
fer him — arter he wuz laid out. But Miss Letty 
say no, she thank ’em ; dey couldn’ do nuttin’ ’tall. 
De funeral wuz mons’ous big. Miss Letty she walk 
by herse’f ’hine de coffin, an’ Tubal he walk right 
’hine Miss Letty. De cap’n wuz d’yar too. 

“ Miss Letty, arter de buryin’, she settle down 
quiet at de overseer’s house wid a po’ relation dat 
come f’um somewhar, an’ fur two or three weeks she 
didn’ do nuttin’ but set an’ look at de fire an’ go ev’y 
evenin’ an’ stan’ by Marse Page grave. Den she 
’gin ter ax Tubal ’bout things, an’ Tubal tole her 
how kin’ de cap’n had been, an’ sen’ Marse Page 
brandy an* things, an’ come ev’y day ter see ef he 
couldn’ do sumpin’ fer him — an’ all dis heah ’fo’ 
Marse Page wuz laid out — an’ how he had done see 
’bout de coffin, an’ had tole Tubal what wuz fitten 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


195 

ter do. De cap’n didn’ call ter see her, but ev’y 
day er two he sen’ de orderly ter ax how she do, 
wid de cap’n’s compliments, an’ sometimes he sen’ 
her er basket er grapes or er bokay. Miss Letty 
she wroten him er little note an’ ax him ter come 
an’ receive her thanks in pusson, an’ he come. 
Tubal say it discomfuse him ter have Miss Letty 
seein’ cump’ny in dat d’yar ole overseer’s house, 
but she wuz fust quality, jes’ de same ez ef she wuz 
at de Shelter in de ole time. Naix day Miss 
Patty Corbin, dat wait fo’teen year ter git ole 
marse, come in her gre’t big kerridge to quile wid 
Miss Letty fer receivin’ Yankee orficers. 

“ ‘ De bes’ people in de county doan’ counte- 
nance it,’ she say. 

“ ‘ Very well,’ answer Miss Letty, wid her cheeks 
afire, ‘it seems they didn’t countenance my poor 
father much after he left the Shelter, but this Yan- 
kee orficer he countenance my father when he was 
ill an’ poor an’ want frien’s — and, Miss Patty,’ she 
say wid her eyes blazin’, ‘ it’s a subject I won’t have 
mentioned to me again — please understand — an’ I 
wish you good-morning.’ Miss Patty she flounce 
out ter her gre’t big kerridge in a huff, an’ Miss 
Letty she walk back inter de overseer’s house like 
it wuz a palace, an’ she wuz a queen. 

“ Tubal he meet de cap’n on de road dat very 
day, an’ tole him de whole contention. De cap’n 
grin when Tubal tole him de way Miss Letty sen’ 
Miss Patty off, same like she wuz shoot out ov a 
gun. 

“ Naix Sunday, at chu’ch, Miss Letty see de 


MAID MARIAN. 


I96 

cap’ll cornin’ in jes’ ez she wuz ; an’ she wait fer 
him, an’ smile, an’ ax him inter her pew, an’ let 
him walk up de aisle ’longside o’ her. Dey sut’ny 
wuz a han’some couple — she look so pretty in her 
black frock, an’ he wuz jes’ ez straight as a Injun. 

“Arter chu’ch, ’stid o’ folks stoppin’ ter speak 
wid Miss Letty, dey jes’ went by her wid a nod an’ 
a scowl. Miss Letty she had a sperrit, ez Marse 
Page say ; she smile an’ keep on talkin’ wid de 
cap’n, an’ let him walk home wid her. Tubal he 
had done gone in de woods ter play de fiddle — ’kase 
dat sinner acshilly play de fiddle Sunday same ez 
week days — he seen ’em walkin’ ’long home, an’ he 
see de cap’n when he tooken Miss Letty han’ an’ 
say, ‘ Can you bear that treatment fer me ? ’ An’ 
Miss Letty she say, ‘ Yes, and a great deal more.’ 
Ef you will believe dis nigger, Miss Letty she 
marry dat cap’n ! She did, fer a fac’ ! She mar- 
ried him, sartin an’ sho ! She marry him ’fo’ de 
summer wuz out. Dey went away, an’ dey want 
ter take Tubal wid ’em, but Tubal he say naw, he 
c’yarn leave Marse Page all by hisse’f in de grave- 
yard, an’ ef he could jes’ live on at de overseer’s 
house, an’ had he fiddle an’ sumpin’ ter eat, he wus 
all right. Miss Letty fix fer him ter stay, an’ de’ 
wuz a little g’yarden patch fer him; but Tubal he 
warn’ never no ’count ter wuk ; he wuz too much 
uv a artis’, de cap’n say. So arter dey wuz mar- 
ried an’ gone, Tubal useter take he fiddle an’ go 
an’ set in de sun by Marse Page grave, an’ play ter 
him, an’ dat nigger had de s’prisin’ owdaciousness 
ter play hymn tunes on de fiddle, like ‘ Roll, Jor- 


TUBAL THE FIDDLER. 


I 9 7 


dan, roll,’ an’ ‘ Dem Golden Slippers.’ Dem wuz 
fer hisse’f, he say, but de reels an’ jigs wuz fer 
Marse Page, ’lease he allers like dat sort o’ music. 
An’ it seem ter me like Tubal play mo’ like de birds 
ev’y day; when he play a reel, it wuz like de win’ 
sweepin’ ober de wheat fiel’, er de water in de mill- 
race po’in’ ober de dam. Dat was in de fall , but 
todes winter Tubal cotch de rheumatiz, an’ he 
couldn’t git outen de house, an’ he finger-j’ints got 
kinder rusty, an’ he couldn’ play no mo’. It sut’ny 
wuz pitiful ter see him settin’ wid de fiddle on he 
knee an’ he c’yarn play it. He wuz mighty po’ly, 
an’ he keep on sayin’ he ain’ gwi’ live long. When 
de spring come he got outen de house when it was 
sunshiny, an’ he useter creep wid he fiddle ter de 
graveyard, but he couldn’ hardly walk. An’ one 
day we had done miss him, but it wuz sunshiny, so 
we knowed he was somewhar ’bout dat graveyard ; 
we-all went ter look fer him, an’ d’yar, layin’ on 
Marse Page grave, wuz Tubal wid he fiddle. He 
wuz done dade. 

“ He had ax us ’fo’ dat ter bury him an’ de fiddle 
close by Marse Page, ’kase Miss Letty had promise 
him he could be laid in de white folks’ buryin’ 
groun’, an’ he wuz laid right d’yar. He look mighty 
natchel in de coffin wid he fiddle an’ he bow by 
him. So we-all buried Tubal, an’ I ’ain’ never see 
sech a fiddler sence.” 


PRISCILLA. 


Priscilla’s beauty was of that shadowy and 
spiritual kind that it took a good while to find out 
that she was a beauty at all. Certainly Priscilla’s 
sisters, the Misses Mildmay, had sublime faith in 
Priscilla’s charms ; but the poor girl herself had 
spent so much of her twenty-five years of life try- 
ing to conform to the standard of behavior incul- 
cated in the Misses Mildmay’s boarding and day 
school for young ladies and little girls that it had 
robbed her of that delicious and ingenuous Vanity 
which is the glorious inheritance of pretty young 
things of her gender. The Misses Mildmay lived 
in an imposing four-story brick mansion in a street 
of the sternest respectability ; there was not a sus- 
picion of the shop in the stately front door, and 
the heavily draped windows bore no advertising 
sign. The tall man-servant who opened the door 
was loftily oblivious to the pupils who sneaked in 
by the garden way. The Misses Mildmay had 
made money in their school — and it was all for 
Priscilla. Had this youngest birdling in the dove- 
cote been like her elder sisters, nothing could have 
been better contrived than the scheme of happi- 


PRISCILLA. 


199 


ness proposed to her. But unfortunately Priscilla 
was no more a Mildmay than she was a Montmo- 
rency or a Conde. It is true that she conformed 
outwardly to the Mildmay model, but Nature’s 
original Priscilla was a merry, fiery young creature 
with peachy cheeks and a perpetual smile and a 
good appetite. All these things, however, were 
kept in abeyance — particularly her color and her 
appetite. Had that dignified footman been cut up 
into juicy chops for Priscilla’s breakfast, and that 
mahogany door been made into rich soups for 
Priscilla’s dinner, she would no doubt have lost 
some of that pretty pallor, that pathetic look out 
of her dark eyes. But the income of the Misses 
Mildmay did not admit of the footman and the 
mahogany door and the juicy chops and rich soups 
too, so they skimped on the dinners, skimped on 
the amusements, skimped on all those vanities that 
had never had any charms for them, but which 
Mother Nature, who is obstinate as well as per- 
verse, had meant for the younger sister. 

The Mildmay religion was necessarily of a well- 
bred and repressive type ; but Priscilla was given 
to getting up early and walking long distances to 
a church in East Harrowby, where not one single 
person could be found who might be called “ in 
society ” except Priscilla herself. The clergyman, 
it is true, was a gentleman, but he was said to be 
so cold, so stern, so unsocial, that he strongly re- 
pelled his own class. There was, however, a reason 
for the Rev. Mr. Thorburn’s indifference to gen- 
eral society. He had met with the most awful of 


200 


MAID MARIAN. 


domestic calamities. The wife whom he loved had 
lost her mind, and was then in a private asylum. 
The only shifting of his burden that the stern Mr. 
Thorburn showed was, he had given up the charge 
which he had held for ten years, and where his happy 
married life had been spent, and had taken a very 
small and pitifully poor church in East Harrowby. 
His congregation was made up entirely of work- 
ing people, to Mr. Thorburn’s intense satisfaction. 
He had the spirit of an apostle, but he was handi- 
capped by his temperament and by the traditions 
of his class. He could not be persistent, or agress- 
ive, or personally solicitous about the highly edu- 
cated, moral, and well-bred persons who made up 
his first congregation. He desired earnestly and 
even fiercely to wake them up to a spiritual life, 
but all of them, pastor as well as people, were too 
well bred for that sort of intimate discussion to be 
forced between them. He found, after some years’ 
experience, that they were willing to let him look 
after their morals, but they proposed to look after 
their spiritual affairs themselves — which is one of 
the commonest and queerest developments of mod- 
ern religious thought. 

In the course of time, Thorburn grew weary of 
trying to spiritualize a congregation of people who 
were so well off in this world that they regarded 
their probable transposition to heaven with great 
distaste. He sickened of being restricted in his 
spiritual efforts to emotional women and priggish 
boys and girls. Religion, he felt, was an affair for 
men — but of the few men communicants in the 


PRISCILLA. 


201 


church, every one of them would have instantly 
withdrawn his subscription and quitted the church 
had the clergyman showed any undue solicitude 
about his soul. And if he had ventured to speak 
of their sins, in any except the most general way, 
the bishop would have come down upon him. So 
this zealous man, so cruelly misplaced, found his 
fashionable congregation and handsome salary ut- 
terly unendurable after that frightful and heart- 
breaking tragedy in his life. He was glad enough 
for the chance to preach to a congregation of de- 
cent brick makers, such as made up most of the 
population of East Harrowby, and who did not find 
this world so pleasant that they could not grasp 
the idea of a better one. 

Dr. Sunbury, the rector of the handsome stone 
church in West Harrowby, was a good man, but he 
would have cut a poor figure as an apostle alongside 
of that independent citizen, Paul of Tarsus, or Peter 
the fisherman. The doctor had the kindest heart, 
though, and the most liberal mind in West Har- 
rowby, and having early had a safe and easy path 
to heaven pointed out to him, he had walked along 
it for forty years, never doubting that he would 
get there in the end. It is true that the spectacle 
of Mr. Thorburn, going night and day among his 
poor parishioners, being doctor, nurse, adviser, ev- 
erything to them, sometimes gave the excellent old 
doctor a qualm, but he had sense enough to see 
that, even if he wished to follow the same life as the 
Rev. Mr. Thorburn, he couldn’t do it. There were 
no sick, poor, ignorant people in the well-bred, well- 


202 


MAID MARIAN. 


fed congregation that listened to Dr. Sunbury’s 
mild and strictly general exhortations. 

Priscilla Mildmay alone of all the doctor’s flock 
went after the new parson at East Harrowby and 
his shabby, uncomfortable church. But Priscilla 
always had an odd way with her, so her elder sis- 
ters gently lamented. For example, instead of 
reading the religious flapdoodle with which they 
were quite satisfied, Priscilla would devour her 
Thomas a Kempis as if all of truth was to be found 
therein, and declared she could not read anything 
after that except the four Gospels. The Misses 
Mildmay had not failed to report Priscilla’s iniq- 
uity to Dr. Sunbury, but they got cold comfort. 

“Let the girl alone,” he said. “ Thorburn’s a 
better preacher than I am, and, God knows, he is a 
better man” (the doctor possessed, without know- 
ing it, one of the greatest Christian" virtues — hu- 
mility) “and don’t bother her. She is right. I’d 
go to hear Thorburn myself if I didn’t have to 
preach.” The two clergymen were upon the most 
friendly terms, although so widely apart in every 
respect but that of mutual good-will. The only 
house in West Harrowby that Thorburn visited 
was Dr. Sunbury’s and the old doctor trudged over 
to East Harrowby sometimes, to smoke a pipe of 
peace in Thorburn’s dingy lodgings. Dr. Sun- 
bury hated walking, but he could not find it in his 
conscience to drive over to that woe-begone com- 
munity in his snug brougham — all of which the re- 
cording angel put down in his favor. 

Priscilla’s face had not escaped Thorburn’s 


PRISCILLA. 


203 


notice. He had keen eyes, and he saw everything. 
He saw Priscilla with wonder. Women, as a rule, 
did not flock to his church. They said they found 
his sermons cold. Men, and some of them none 
of the best, chiefly made up his audiences. It was 
not hard anywhere to observe Priscilla’s snow- 
drop face in her little black bonnet, with her eager, 
beseeching eyes. After a while Mr. Thorburn 
began to feel their mesmeric influence, as Dr. Sun- 
bury had done ever since she was fifteen. He be- 
gan to watch for her, to preach at her, to feel that 
she understood him — a very comfortable thing for 
a public speaker. Of course he knew who Miss 
Priscilla Mildmay was — “Very nice, but not the 
equal of the elder Misses Mildmay,” he usually 
heard — and sometimes they had met at Dr. Sun- 
bury’s. As Mr. Thorburn was naturally a silent 
man, and Priscilla lacked courage in a drawing- 
room, they scarcely exchanged half a dozen words. 
It came about, though, as these things will, that in 
the course of his parish work he came upon Pris- 
cilla — Priscilla teaching a class of ragged boys their 
lessons, after having taught the most stylish young 
ladies in West Harrowby the most elegant branches 
of a polite education. Some way, all the restraint 
they had felt in Dr. Sunbury’s drawing-room melt- 
ed away in the little bare school room. There 
Priscilla reigned supreme, calmly confident under 
Mr. Thorburn’s searching gaze. She had a pecul- 
iar knack of teaching. Her gentle, “ Now, please, 
boys,” had the same effect as Mr. Thorburn’s stern, 
“ See, you fellows, behave yourselves.” Mr. Thor- 


204 


MAID MARIAN. 


burn watched with admiration the tact with which 
she managed her somewhat unruly crowd. 

Of course all this teaching did not go on with 
the unqualified approbation of the Misses Mildmay. 
Priscilla showed a phenomenal determination about 
it, and being upheld by Dr. Sunbury, who in some 
way always encouraged her vagaries, the Misses 
Mildmay, although they might look coldly on it, 
could not forbid it. 

It did not take much to violently excite West 
Harrowby ; and therefore when the Harrowby 
Union-Palladium published one morning, with a big 
display head that covered half the first page of the 
paper, the burning of the Northern Lunatic Asy- 
lum, a certain circumstance connected therewith 
gave West Harrowby something to talk about for 
a week. Five inmates of the women’s ward were 
missing, and among them was Mrs. Eleanor Thor- 
burn. Five bodies, charred beyond recognition, 
were found in the ruins. Some days after a notice 
appeared in the obituary column of the Union-Pal- 
ladium : “Suddenly, on the 17th of February, Mrs. 
Eleanor Thorburn, wife of the Reverend Edmund 
Thorburn, of East Harrowby.” That was all. 

Nobody — not the most censorious — could ac- 
cuse Mr. Thorburn of not paying scrupulous re- 
spect to his wife’s memory. Yet it made but little 
outward difference in his life. For two or three 
Sundays he was absent from his pulpit, and when he 
reappeared he wore a band of crape upon his hat. 

So things went on until nearly two years had 
slipped past. One spring afternoon Dr. Sunbury, 


PRISCILLA. 


205 

with his particular chum and crony, Dr. Forman 
the great light of the medical profession in and 
about Harrowby, was enjoying a quiet saunter 
through the familiar shady street. They had 
wrestled in argument so often, and practiced in 
company so much, that Dr. Sunbury had become a 
pretty good doctor of medicine, and Dr. Forman 
was no mean proficient in theology. Right in the 
midst of a friendly-fierce wrangle on the subject 
of ecclesiastical history, Dr. Forman suddenly re- 
marked, “ That's going to be a match." 

Dr. Sunbury glanced up, and saw Mr. Thor- 
burn, as he met Priscilla Mildmay, stop, smile, 
speak a few words, and, lifting his hat, go upon 
his way. 

“Bless my soul ! " almost shouted Dr. Sunbury, 
stopping short and gazing at Dr. Forman’s immov- 
able face. 

“Why not?" said the doctor testily. “I see 
them together half a dozen times a week." 

Dr. Sunbury was at heart an invererate match- 
maker, as all truly benevolent old persons are apt 
to be, and as soon as he allowed his imagination 
to feast upon the idea of a match between Thor- 
burn and Priscilla, its manifest fitness impressed 
itself so upon him that he would fain have got out 
a license, gone to them, and commanded them to 
stand up and be married immediately. He did, 
however, firmly resolve to give Thorburn a hint ; 
but giving Thorburn hints was always a matter of 
more or less difficulty with everybody. At last, 
however, the opportunity came, and Dr. Sunbury 


206 


MAID MARIAN. 


seized it courageously. He had been spending the 
evening with Mr. Thorburn at his lodgings, and 
the other clergyman happening to mention, as Dr. 
Sunbury was taking his leave, that he thought of 
getting lodgings elsewhere, Dr. Sunbury remarked 
quite naturally that he “ had heard something re- 
garding Mr. Thorburn and Miss Priscilla Mildmay 
which perhaps accounted for the proposed change.” 
They were standing at Mr. Thorburn’s door, and 
by the bright moonlight Dr. Sunbury saw the dark 
flush which overspread Mr. Thorburn’s somewhat 
saturnine face. 

“ I — I assure you — ” he began ; and then, after 
a pause, “I am too old.” 

“ Nonsense !” replied Dr. Sunbury. “Priscilla 
is nearly twenty-six ” (ah ! doctor, you know she 
was only twenty-five month before last), “ and you 
are — let me see — thirty-seven.” 

“Thirty-nine,” conscientiously said Mr. Thor- 
burn. 

“Well, thirty-nine. You are enough man of 
the world to see that age interposes no obstacle in 
the case. However, I shall say no more. Good- 
night.” 

“If I hadn’t been going just then, I don’t think 
I could have said it,” confidentially remarked Dr. 
Sunbury to Dr. Forman. 

The little seed that Dr. Sunbury had planted in 
Mr. Thorburn’s mind grew, and waxed to be a 
great tree. But all the time he looked upon it as 
impossible. Priscilla was but a child, and he was 
a man grown old in sorrow, in suffering, and 


PRISCILLA. 


20 7 


labor. No, it could never be. And having come 
to the conclusion that he was in no danger what- 
ever, Mr. Thorburn fared just as such presump- 
tuous Samsons always do. He met Priscilla under 
the most adverse circumstances, running home 
from a shower, and in a manner the most unex- 
pected to himself, proposed to her just as they 
came in front of the West Harrowby savings- 
bank, which was also the post-office and the prin- 
cipal apothecary’s shop. Priscilla’s behavior was 
of a piece with his own. The idea had never been 
presented to her mind before, and it was a matter 
that required the utmost circumspection in decid- 
ing, and yet by the time she reached her own door 
she had accepted Mr. Thorburn, the rain mean- 
while from his umbrella trickling in little rivers 
down her back. There was neither time nor op- 
portunity for love-making in the midst of a pour- 
ing shower, upon the pavement in front of the 
Mildmay mansion, so Mr. Thorburn could only 
take her little cold hand and say, “ God bless you, 
God bless you, my Priscilla ! ” 

In due course of time the wedding — a very 
quiet one — came off, and Mr. and Mrs. Thorburn 
were settled in a modest rectory in East Harrowby. 
The Misses Mildmay had suggested — indeed, urged 
— that Mr. Thorburn should establish his rectory 
in the more fashionable precinct of West Harrow- 
by, but Mr. Thorburn demurred, on the ground of 
its being a clergyman’s duty to live in his parish. 

They were as happy as the day was long. Pris- 
cilla, under the new influence of happiness and 


208 


MAID MARIAN. 


good roast beef and a daily pint of porter, grew 
rosy, and blossomed out into a regular beauty, and 
Mr. Thorburn’s face lost that painful expression it 
had been wont to wear when he strode through the 
streets on his parish work. And time went by so 
fast — so fast ; they had been married nearly three 
years, when they felt as if their honey-moon was 
just beginning. 

It was getting toward dusk one misty Novem- 
ber afternoon when Priscilla went tripping past 
Dr. Forman’s house, which stood on the opposite 
side of the street. The moisture from the over- 
hanging branches of the elm trees was dripping up- 
on her, and her boots were quite soaked through. 
Across the way the doctor was just stepping out of 
his buggy, and she stopped and debated whether 
she should not go over and ask him to drive her a 
quarter of a mile further down the road to the rec- 
tory. As she stood hesitating, a woman approached 
her out of the mist, and spoke. 

“ May I inquire,” she said, “ the way to the 
house of the Rev. Mr. Thorburn ? ” 

She was perhaps forty, and had once been 
pretty. Even now a certain pathetic charm at- 
tached to her, and the voice and accent were of 
that cultivated kind which established her title to 
be called a lady, in spite of the extreme plainness 
of her attire. 

Her hair, which was a beautiful auburn, curled 
over her forehead in little natural rings, and her eyes 
were strangely bright. She looked as if she had 
just recovered from illness, and was not physically 


PRISCILLA. 


209 


strong, but there was a look of tremulous happi- 
ness in her face. When she said “ the Rev. Mr. 
Thorburn,” her voice was musically lowered, and 
her gray eyes became radiant. Priscilla took all 
this in at a glance. She was some woman whom 
Thorburn had befriended, and who had come to 
him to lay down her load of gratitude at his feet. 

“Yes,” said Priscilla, with ready politeness; 
“just down the road, the first house to the left. 
You will have to wait an hour or two, perhaps, 
though, for Mr. Thorburn. He is seldom in before 
half past-six. I am Mrs. Thorburn, you see,” she 
said, smiling. 

The stranger looked at her for a moment with 
a kind of wide-eyed horror, and, throwing her arms 
up in the air, fell prone on the ground as if she had 
received a pistol shot through the heart. 

Priscilla had never been brought face to face 
with any startling emergencies during her quiet 
life. She stood for a moment frozen with terror, 
and then ran like a deer across to where Dr. For- 
man stood giving some directions to his man. 

“ Oh, doctor, come ! run as fast as you can.” 
She pointed to the prostrate figure lying in the 
muddy road. Dr. Forman gave one glance, and 
started at a smart pace, Priscilla keeping up with 
him, and telling him breathlessly what had oc- 
curred. The doctor bent down, turned the unfort- 
unate woman over on her back, and said two 
words, “ Dead faint.” 

“ Can’t I do something ? ” said Priscilla, hover- 
ing near. 


14 


210 


MAID MARIAN. 


“Yes. Go and tell Sam to come here at once, 
and then go home yourself. You’ll have another 
touch of rheumatism if you go out in this weather. 
I shall speak to Thorburn about it.” 

The doctor was a man of authority ; so Pris- 
cilla, after sending Sam over, and returning only 
to be sharply ordered about her business, went 
home. Mr. Thorburn was later than usual that 
night. A strike was threatened among the brick 
makers, and they had said they would treat with 
him and with no one else. He was troubled and 
harassed — and, contrary to the custom of some 
women in like circumstances, Priscilla did not 
choose grewsome stories, like strange women faint- 
ing in the street, to entertain him — so nothing was 
said of the somewhat tragic occurrence of the 
afternoon. Next morning he was off bright and 
early, Priscilla making no mention of her aching 
joints. Before night the doctor’s promised touch 
of rheumatism had set in. Priscilla made light of 
it, but agreed to send for Dr. Forman, and insisted 
that Thorburn should attend to the business of 
averting the strike. Instead of coming himself, 
young Dr. Curtis, Dr. Forman’s assistant, came. 
Dr. Forman had a very ill patient. Mrs. Thor- 
burn inquired eagerly about the woman who had 
dropped in the street. Dr. Curtis had heard Dr. 
Forman say something about it, but supposed it 
was all right, as he had heard nothing further on 
the subject. Mrs. Thorburn would be all right 
too if she would stay in the house in bad weather, 
and take care of herself. 


PRISCILLA. 


21 1 


The incident made no very particular impres- 
sion on Priscilla. But on the night after it had hap- 
pened, Dr. Sunbury got a very pressing message 
from Dr. Forman. He went at once to the doctor’s 
house, picking his way through the dark November 
night ; and Dr. Forman opened the door himself, 
and led the way into his little back office, where he 
told his visitor of the patient he had found in the 
street, and who at that moment lay up-stairs in the 
doctor’s spare bedroom, with the doctor’s house- 
keeper in attendance on her. 

“And — she — is — ” Dr. Forman hesitated. A 
strange pallor was upon his homely, good-natured 
face, and his voice was tremulous. He took a mo- 
ment or two to recover himself, and then burst out : 
“ She is — the first wife of Mr. Thorburn.” 

Dr. Sunbury rose from his chair and fell back 
in it again. He raised his hand as if in denuncia- 
tion. “ May God — ” 

“ Wait. He is as guiltless as you are.” Dr. 
Forman paused a minute or two, and then took up 
the thread of his discourse where he had left off 
describing his sending Priscilla Thorburn home. 
“ I brought her, with my man’s help, into the 
house, and had her put in bed. It was plainly 
nothing but a faint ; but she went from one faint- 
ing spell into another, and when I had finally 
brought her round, the fainting spell changed into 
convulsions. For hours I worked with her. At 
last I stopped them, and got her under the influ- 
ence of an opiate. I was tired myself, and went 
to bed to get a few hours’ sleep, leaving word for 


212 


MAID MARIAN. 


Curtis to be called. In the middle of the night I 
was waked by Jane standing by my bedside, look- 
ing frightened out of her wits. ‘ Do, pray, Dr. For- 
man, come to the strange lady.’ When I got to 
the room she was lying in the bed, weak, but per- 
fectly conscious. She intimated to me that she 
wished to say something to me privately. Of 
course I tried to induce her to put it off, but she 
was determined. 

“ I saw that she was no ordinary woman — she 
had been beautiful — and she was still comely. 
And she had that air of melancholy command that 
those who are in the crisis of tremendous misfor- 
tunes only have. So I sent Jane out of the room. 
Then she said, in the calmest possible way, ‘ Doc- 
tor, I am the first wife of Edmund Thorburn.’ I 
was incredulous, and thought her crazy, the more 
so that the next thing she told was that she had 
been for the last six years in a lunatic asylum. But 
when she told me her story I saw that she was at 
that moment as sane as I was. And such a story ! ” 
Dr. Forman, a stolid man usually, took out his 
handkerchief and buried his face in it, and an oc- 
casional sob escaped from him. Dr. Sunbury put 
his hand to his eyes, as the doctor gasped out at 
intervals. “ They were so happy ! She had given 
up everything to marry him, and wanted him to 
give up his parish because it did not suit him, and 
to take some such charge as East Harrowby, and 
to share his poverty with him — she, delicately nur- 
tured and finely bred. And then came the terrible 
illness, and a still more terrible blank ; and then, 


PRISCILLA. 


213 


after years which are as nothing in her mind, a re- 
turn, an awakening, a resurrection to life and the 
most perfect felicity, so she thought — poor thing, 
poor thing ! — and when she got here, to East Har- 
rowby, she was so overcome with the happiness in 
store for them, that she felt her heart would burst 
if she saw him too suddenly — she wandered about, 
waiting until dusk to go to his house, and to throw 
herself in her husband’s arms — ” 

Dr. Forman paused for a long time. Then 
presently recovering himself, he suddenly fell into 
his calm, professional tone. 

“ No family taint — violent fever, followed by 
more violent insanity, and likely to result in a 
cure.” After a moment he continued : “ She, of 
course, remembered nothing of her first attack. 
She called it insanity ; nothing insane in her way of 
speaking of it, using just the same terms you or I 
would, without evasion, and supposes now that 
from certain faint 'recollections her cure had begun 
about the time of the asylum fire. She remem- 
bers something of the scene, and the next thing 
finding herself shivering and half clad in a rail- 
way train. She remembers nothing more until she 
became an inmate of the Central Lunatic Asylum. 
There were no means of identifying her for a long 
time. She had been supplied with clothes by 
charitable people on the train. No inquiries were 
made about her, which she could not understand 
until I told her of her supposed death. She was 
called Mrs. March, because it was in the month of 
March that she was brought to the asylum. Her 


214 


MAID MARIAN. 


recovery was gradual, but it is a common experi- 
ence with such persons that their own names and 
individuality is the last for the restored mind to 
grasp. About six months ago she became perfectly 
herself. She felt an entirely sane and rational doubt 
of herself, until time had tested it ; but about a 
month ago she gave such information of herself 
as led to a letter being written to Brightwood, 
where Thorburn had a church at the time of her 
illness. Thorburn was not there, but an answer 
was received saying he was at East Harrowby. 
They wrote again. That letter could never have 
been delivered, and, after waiting four weeks for 
an answer, Mrs. Thorburn persuaded the superin- 
tendent to allow her to come here with an attend- 
ant to find her friends. The attendant found some 
acquaintances, and began to gossip with them. 
Mrs. Thorburn tells me that she felt shame and 
horror at returning to her husband’s house accom- 
panied by a keeper; so she slipped off, and met 
Priscilla. You know the rest.” 

Dr. Sunbury sat looking like a man paralyzed. 
“Well?” 

“ You must send Thorburn here to-night.” 

Dr. Sunbury rose and walked restlessly about 
the little office. 

“ To-night,” repeated Dr. Forman ; “ for I don’t 
think she’ll last beyond to-morrow.” 

“ Why, what’s the matter with her ? ” asked Dr. 
Sunbury, pausing in his troubled walk. 

“ Nothing but death,” answered Dr. Forman. 
“ Skill can do nothing for that woman. She ought 


PRISCILLA. 


215 


to have rallied from the fainting spells ; instead, 
she went off into convulsions. She ought to have 
rallied from the convulsions ; instead, she is sink- 
ing as fast as any mortal I ever saw. Poor thing, 
so pretty, so gentle ! ” 

It was arranged that Mr. Thorburn was to be 
sent for ; and to Dr. Sunbury was left the dread- 
ful task of telling him the truth. 

An hour after that. Dr. Sunbury, thinking mis- 
erably of poor Priscilla and the unhappy creature 
up-stairs, heard the wheels of Dr. Forman’s buggy 
grinding on the gravel outside, and Mr. Thorburn’s 
quick, firm step as he entered the house. Dr. 
Sunbury met him with a sinking heart, and a cold 
tremor that shook him like an aspen. 

“ I came at once, as you see, my friend,” began 
Thorburn cheerily. And then looking closer at 
Dr. Sunbury’s white face, said, “ Why, what is the 
matter ? * 

Dr. Sunbury, without a word, led him back 
into the little office, and carefully closed the door. 
“ Thorburn,” he said, “ I believe you to be a man 
and a Christain, Call up, therefore, all your man- 
hood, and all your dependence on God, to bear 
what I have to tell you.” 

Mr. Thorburn’s dark skin grew a shade darker 
at these words, but he made no reply, only look- 
ing Dr. Sunbury full in the eye. 

“ Priscilla told you, perhaps — of a woman faint- 
ing — in the road — Tuesday afternoon,” Dr. Sun- 
bury got his words out in gasps. 

“ Yes, yes.” 


21 6 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ She is now in this house. Thorburn, she is — 
the wife you supposed dead.’' 

Mr. Thorburn took in as quickly what had been 
told him as his dying wife had done. He rose 
from his chair ; the strong man reeled and fell, 
with a deep groan, and his arms outstretched over 
the doctor’s study table. Dr. Sunbury made no 
offer of consolation. He covered his face with 
his hands and wept. 

After a pause, Thorburn said: “We must do 
what is right. My poor Priscilla ! ” 

He suddenly checked himself. Ah, it was but 
a little while since he had known Priscilla — and 
the woman up-stairs was the wife of his youth. 
And he had loved her well. But which one of us 
would rejoice at having the dead to rise from their 
graves ? 

“ Will you not see — ” said Dr. Sunbury, after a 
short silence, pointing overhead, where the dying 
Mrs. Thorburn lay. 

“ Now ? Not yet, not yet. Give me a moment, 
for God’s sake.” 

“ But she is dying ; she has not long that she 
can wait for you.” 

Thorburn rose at once. “ Tell me how it was, 
before I see her,” he asked. 

In a few words Dr. Sunbury told him. 

Just then Dr. Forman appeared. “You had 
best go now,” he said to Thorburn. 

Dr. Sunbury took Mr. Thorburn’s arm and led 
him up-stairs. Dr. Forman preceded them. As 
they reached the door, Thorburn caught Dr. For- 


PRISCILLA. 


217 


man’s wrist, his face quite ashy and his eyes wild, 
as if to ask for a moment’s grace; but it was* too 
late, the door was open, and Dr. Forman had beck- 
oned to the nurse to leave the bedside. Thorburn 
closed the door after him, and walking to the bed, 
found himself alone with the woman that to him 
had risen from the dead. 

“ Forgive me ! Forgive me ! ” was all that 
Thorburn could say. 

“ Forgive you ? ” asked the wife, in her old 
sweet voice. “ Why should I not forgive you ? 
Only, you must pity me. Think ! six years of 
agony, to return and find — I thought until now 
that it was easier to die than live,” she continued, 
feebly. “ It would save so much misery if death 
should free you from me.” 

Eleanor ! Eleanor ! ” 

’’And in one moment — in the twinkling of an 
eye, I was dashed from the most perfect happiness 
into the most terrible misery. I thought my home 
was waiting for me ; I thought my husband’s heart 
yearned for me — and without one word of warning 

I beheld myself an outcast on the face of the 

earth — a being whose death would bless the man 
she loved ! ” 

Her voice grew strong in its intensity as she 
spoke. Thorburn leaned on the bed, his arm 
around her, and great drops upon his pallid face. 
A groan burst from him. The dying can not weep, 
but there was a terrible and piercing pity for her- 
self and for him in Mrs. Thorburn ’s uncertain voice 
and her misty eyes. Thorburn tried to tell her 


2 18 


MAID MARIAN. 


that he had not forgotten her — that he loved her 
when he thought her dead — but it was only half 
expressed, and Mrs. Thorburn checked him gently. 

“ We have only a little while to be together,” 
she said. “ I felt myself to be dying the instant I 
felt myself to be alive. I have been dying for three 
days — and I tried to die without seeing you — but I 
could not — I could not ! ” 

Down-stairs Dr. Sunbury and Dr. Forman con- 
versed in whispers, Dr. Forman holding his watch 
in his hand. On the stroke of the half-hour he 
went up-stairs. As he entered the room he saw 
Thorburn half leaning on the bed, while Mrs. Thor- 
burn’s head rested on his breast. The doctor took 
one keen look at his patient, and suddenly whip- 
ping out his lancet, called, loudly : 

“Jane! Jane! come at once. I want to give 
Mrs. Thorburn a hypoderm of brandy.” 

Dr. Sunbury heard the call, and came too. He 
obeyed a look from the doctor, and taking Thor- 
burn by the arm, almost dragged him from the 
room. Jane came with the brandy, with salts, with 
the doctor’s electrical appliances ; but it was too 
late. Mrs. Thorburn breathed an hour or two 
longer, and then, without a word, a look, or a sigh, 
stopped breathing. 

“ It is all over,” said Dr. Forman, going out on 
the landing to speak to Dr. Sunbury. 

Thorburn went away the night of his wife’s 
death. 

To Dr. Sunbury was intrusted the terrible task 
of telling Priscilla. He came forth from that in- 


PRISCILLA. 


219 

terview ten years older, and tottering as he 
walked. 

The affair was hushed up, and the world at 
large was no wiser about it. Thorburn and Pris- 
cilla left East Harrowby, ostensibly on account of 
Thorburn’s breaking down. Before they left, a 
marriage ceremony, the most painful that could be 
imagined, was performed between them in Dr. Sun- 
bury’s study, with Dr. Forman for a witness. 

But never afterward were Thorburn and Pris- 
cilla happy. They were good, they loved each 
other, they were thrown upon each other for com- 
fort — but between them sat the ghost of the dead 
woman, who had come to claim her happiness, and 
found another woman in possession of it. 


KAINTUCK. 


The sergeant’s ruddy, handsome face was the 
only cheerful object within the prison yard as he 
walked up and down, crossing the sentry’s beat. 
The yard was small — it was at the back of the 
gloomy brick building — and only one narrow win- 
dow looked out upon it. The day was dark and 
dull. The soldier marching up and down, clutch- 
ing his musket, looked sulky and cold, and he won- 
dered why a man like Sergeant Heywood, who 
didn’t have to do sentry duty, should be pacing 
back and forth for two hours at a stretch. 

The sight of a prisoner’s face at the barred 
window did not add to the cheerfulness of the sur- 
roundings. The face was curiously twisted and 
distorted by a shot that had torn through the jaw. 
It would have been repulsive but for the eyes — 
eyes pathetic, curious, patient, almost the color of 
the faded “ butternut ” clothes of the prisoner. 
As soon as the sergeant saw the poor face at the 
window he halted in his walk, and called out, 
cheerily, “ Hello, Kaintuck ! ” 

“ Hello ! ” responded Kaintuck, with equal 


KAINTUCK. 


221 


cheeriness, but in a thin, soft voice, such as might 
be expected to come out of his narrow chest. 

“ How are you to-day ? ” continued the ser- 
geant. 

“ Purty well, considerin’,” answered Kaintuck. 
“ Las’ night I didn’t sleep very well. This here 
old jaw got to achin’ ; an’, by golly, sergeant, she 
kin everlastin’ ache when she starts in ! Ef it 
hadn’t ben for that terbacker you give me yester- 
day, I’ll ’low I’d had a sorter onpleasant time. 
But it was a comfort, cert’n’y. Before I lit my 
pipe it seemed like I never was goin’ ter see Polly 
an’ the kid no more, that you blarsted Yankees 
was a-goin’ ter whip us, spite o’ General Lee, an’ 
that this here jaw was a-goin’ ter come all ter 
pieces. But I hadn’t hardly lighted that pipe, sir, 
before I seen Polly an’ the kid right before me, 
lookin’ peart an’ gay, an’ Marse Bob had done 
licked you all like the devil, an’ my jaw was all 
right, an’ goin’ ter stay so. That’s what terbacker 
does for a man.” 

The sergeant accepted these indications of the 
prisoner’s sympathies with great good-humor. 

“ I’ve got some more of that same brand,” said 
he ; “ it affects me kinder the same way too. 
When I smoke, it seems to me General Grant is 
marchin’ into Richmond, and the bands is playin’ 
‘Yankee Doodle,’ and I’m a colonel ridin’ at the 
head of my regiment.” 

Kaintuck smiled at this. His smile was a mere 
contortion, but his deep strange eyes smiled lumi- 
nously. 


222 


MAID MARIAN. 


“ I reckon it’s a kinder universal comforter. 
Did it bring your wife and your kids right up 
before you ? ” 

The sergeant was a great strapping fellow, six 
feet high ; but at this pleasantry he blushed like a 
girl. 

“ I ain’t got a wife, nor kids either ; but — ” 

“You’ve got a girl, hain’t you? Come, ser- 
geant, let’s hear ’bout it. It’s mighty lonesome 
somehow in this Government hotel.” 

The sergeant laughed, and came closer to the 
window. Just then a streak of sunlight fell upon 
him, as he stood with one foot advanced and his 
stalwart arms crossed ; but the prison window and 
Kaintuck remained in the gloom. The sergeant 
pulled his cap down over his eyes quite bashfully, 
and cleared his throat. 

“ Now, I’m talkihg confidential, Kaintuck — ” 

“ An’ you don’t want me to tell the agreeable 
an’ amusin’ companions I have in here,” continued 
Kaintuck, in the same soft, slow voice. “ Fac’ is, 
when a man’s been in prison fur eighteen months, 
an’ never had a soul but them doctors ter take no 
more notice of him ner a dog, excep’ yourself, ser- 
geant — ” 

Kaintuck stopped. The retrospect struck him 
unpleasantly. 

“Well, I’m goin’ to tell you what I ain’t told 
even to my folks at home. I’ve got a girl — an’ 
she’s only twenty-one years old, an’ a widder — an’ 
the biggest rebel, b’gosh — ” 

The sergeant brought all this out in jerks, in- 


KAINTUCK. 


223 

termingled with suppressed laughter; and when 
he announced the last fact, Kaintuck joined in his 
hilarity. 

“ Blamed if women ain’t the queerest lot,” re- 
marked Kaintuck, chuckling. 

“You bet,” assented the sergeant, still laugh- 
ing. “You oughter heard that gal sass me. 
There she was, all by herself in a little house, with 
a kid about two years old, an’ when I come po- 
litely to tell her I’d take care the men didn’t milk 
her cow or take her chickens, and told her she 
needn’t be afraid of anything, she stood in her 
door, with that baby in her arms, and fairly poured, 
hot shot into me. ‘I’m a soldier’s widow,’ she 
says, her eyes blazing. 4 Do you think I know 
what it is to be afraid of you 1 Oh, if this child 
only was a man to shoulder his dead father’s mus- 
ket ! ’ Now, you know, Kaintuck, that kind o’ 
talk from a poor young thing all dressed in black 
breaks a man all up. So I just kep’ my cap in my 
hand, and I says, 4 Madam, I respect a soldier’s 
widow, no matter which side the soldier fought on, 
and whether you’ll agree or not, I’ll make it my 
business to see that you’ll have some kind of pro- 
tection.’ We was in winter quarters then, about a 
mile from her house. You know, men is hard to 
manage sometimes, and if I hadn’t spoke to some 
of the officers, the poor thing’s little all in the way 
of chickens and such would have gone. But I 
told my cap’n about it, and that her husband was 
killed in the rebel army, and he settled it so that 
not a man dared to be seen near that hen roost 


224 


MAID MARIAN. 


and cow pasture. But I don’t know what she’d ’a 
done for wood if I hadn’t looked out for her. I’d 
drop an armful, and knock at the door, and she’d 
open it. Then I’d say, ‘ Will you please to tell me 
where to put this?’ ‘Anywhere you like,’ she’d 
say, and go on with her knittin’ an’ sewin’. It 
kinder nettled me at first, but she looked so young 
and pitiful, I couldn’t get mad with her. Then 
somehow that young one got almighty fond of me. 
Every time I’d pass by that little house — and I got 
to goin’ by purty often — he’d come toddlin’ out — 
he was a handsome youngster — and he’d howl like 
tarnation if I didn’t take him up in my arms. At 
first his mother — her name’s Mary — would look 
black at me ; but one day the little feller took my 
cap out of my hand, and tried to put it on his own 
head. ‘ No, sir,’ says I. ‘ The lady yonder ’ll 
think you’re poisoned if you put a blue cap on 
your head.’ At that she laughed. I never seen 
her laugh before.” 

Kaintuck had pressed his face close to the bars 
of the window to hear the sergeant’s story by this 
time, and the sergeant had advanced a step or two 
so that they could talk in a low voice. 

“ Go on,” said Kaintuck. “ How did you git 
the better of her at last ?” 

“I don’t know,” answered the sergeant, pulling 
his cap down a little farther yet, and showing his 
white teeth in a smile. “ First time I told her she 
was pretty — by George ! ” 

The sergeant stopped short, completely over- 
come by the recollection. 


KAINTUCK. 


225 


“ Kaintuck, she don’t more’n come up to my 
shoulder, an’ she weighs about a hundred pounds, 
but I thought she was going to whip me then and 
there. I’ve been scared nearly to death two or 
three times during this unpleasantness, but I swear, 
Kaintuck, if that little widder wasn’t the first rebel 
that started me on the dead run, without makin’ 
some sort of a show of fightin’. However, I felt 
so mean about showing the white feather that I 
just determined I wasn’t going to be stampeded 
that way -again. So I braced up, an’ put on my 
best uniform, an’ went to see her again. She says, 
* I’m a rebel, and I’m bound to be one always.' 
‘That’s all right,’ says I, ‘bein’ you’re nothin’ but 
a woman, and a mighty little one at that, and 
ma’am,’ says I, ‘this thing’s goin’ to be decided 
without the slightest reference to which side you 
are on.’ She laughed, and then, without any sort 
o’ warning, she turned her pretty face to the wall 
and begun to cry. After a while I talked to her 
sensible like. I says, ‘ Here you are alone and un- 
protected. How are you going to bring up that 
boy ? What’ll you do when I go away ? ’ She 
turned white, and held the child in her arms. I 
said, ‘ I’ll not only do for you, but I’ll do for the 
boy besides. I’ve got a little money saved up, and 
he’ll have his share of it. He shan’t never know 
what it is not to have a father if you’ll marry me, 
Mary.’ So after a while, between crying and kiss- 
ing the baby, and looking mournfully at the fire, 
she agreed to marry me if I’d wait till the spring, 
and in May I’m going to get leave — my cap’n 

15 


226 


MAID MARIAN. 


knows all about it — and there’ll be one rebel less, 
I believe, before long, though she does swear she’ll 
never be anything but a rebel.” 

“ Sergeant,” said Kaintuck, “ how did she take 
the partin’ ? Since you’ve been so free, you won’t 
mind my askin’ the question.” 

The sergeant hesitated, but there was some- 
thing so strangely sympathetic in poor Kaintuck’s 
humid eyes, and in the ghost of a smile that 
haunted his patient face, that the sergeant could 
not but tell. “ She behaved like a little soldier till 
the last. I didn’t half like her being so brave. 
But when she knew she was seein’ me for the last 
time — well — er — I couldn’t exactly tell another 
feller. Anyhow, she had been makin’ out all along 
she was thinkin’ about the boy, but I swear I be- 
lieve she forgot all about the blessed kid. She 
never told me in so many words, but I kinder sus- 
pect she didn’t care so much about the dead feller 
as she thought. It leaked out in little things, that 
he was kind to her, and she wasn’t out of her 
teens, and I don’t believe she was really grown up 
until she heard he was dead in prison, and she had 
to look out for herself. Howsomever,” said the 
sergeant, pulling himself together, and laughing 
again — he was a good-natured fellow — “I’ve told 
you a durned sight of spooney stuff.” 

“An’ I won’t mention it to the rats, neither,” 
answered Kaintuck. 

“ It’s time for me to be goin’,” remarked the 
sergeant, with a sudden accession of shamefaced- 
ness following his confidences. 


KAINTUCK. 


227 


“And I’m thinkin’,” called out Kaintuck after 
him as he strode away, “ that little rebel widder is 
goin’ to git a mighty good feller for a husband ! ” 

For four or five days the sergeant was too busy 
to go near the prison, but one evening at nightfall, 
as he was trudging along to his quarters, some one 
hailed him. It was the chaplain, a small, meek 
man, as brave as a lion. He and the sergeant had 
seen service together. 

“Is that Sergeant Heywood ? ” he asked. 

“Yes, sir,” answered the sergeant, touching his 
cap. 

“ There’s a poor fellow down at the jail ” — 
everybody called Kaintuck a poor fellow — “ who 
has been asking for you. He’s going to die, I 
think.” 

The sergeant started. Who ever bestowed 
kindness and care on a prisoner that did not come 
to love him finally ? “ Why, sir ? ” asked the ser- 

geant, after a pause. “What’s the matter with 
him, sir ? ” 

“ Nothing — but death. He is rather an extraor- 
dinary fellow. His determination to live brought 
him through enough to kill ten men. A day or two 
ago he got a letter, and since then he seems equal- 
ly determined to die. These cases are not so un- 
common, after all. Did you never hear how easily 
a great strapping Russian soldier dies of home- 
sickness or disappointment — any little thing that 
takes away the desire of living ? ” 

“ May be it’s the Russian doctors, sir,” replied 
the sergeant quite gravely. Fear of shot and shell 


228 


MAID MARIAN. 


he knew not, but he had been seen to turn pale at 
the sight of the surgeon’s scalpel, and to have 
crawled out to parade with a shaking ague on him 
rather than encounter a visit from that same sur- 
geon. 

The chaplain smiled. “ It’s not the doctors this 
time, though Heaven knows I fear some of these 
army surgeons myself.” 

“ I didn’t think you was afraid of anything, sir, 
after that day at Cedar Mountain, when the officers 
kep’ ordering you to the rear, and you wouldn’t 
budge a peg.” 

A faint color crept into the chaplain’s sallow 
face. This humble and unstudied tribute pleased 
him. 

The sergeant was a strict disciplinarian, and 
knew better than to stand too long talking with 
his officer, so he touched his cap and moved on. 

When he reached the prison, it was already 
dark. He walked through the long corridor until 
he reached Kaintuck’s cell, in which a lamp — a 
rare luxury — was burning. To the sergeant’s sur- 
prise, Kaintuck was up and dressed and sitting on 
the narrow bed. On his knees was a large new 
Bible which the chaplain had given him, but which 
he was not reading. His strange eyes were fixed 
on the door, and when the sergeant’s big figure 
filled up the doorway, something like joy flashed 
into his maimed face. He got up and shuffled 
over to meet the sergeant. 

“Why, sergeant,” he cried, “ I thought you had 
forgot me ! ” 


KAINTUCK. 


229 


“ No, I ain’t forgot you,” answered the ser- 
geant kindly ; “ but the chaplain told me you was 
goin’ to give us the slip. You don’t look like it, 
though.” 

The shadow of a smile showed itself in Kain- 
tuck’s eyes. He had a sort of primitive humor 
that delighted in surprises. “ Well, I am,” he re- 
marked, after a moment; “I feel it. I felt it the 
minute I got — her letter.” Something in his slow 
soft tone struck the sergeant and stopped the pro- 
test on his lips. Kaintuck’s life had hung on a 
thread for the best part of two years, and since he 
continued to live with great obstinacy in spite of 
the doctors, he might now die in defiance of them. 
“ I’ll tell you,” he said, coming up closer to the 
sergeant and speaking in a distressed and hurried 
voice; “I ain’t told none of ’em — not even the 
preacher, and he is a good man if he is a preacher. 
You see, Mary — that’s her name — I just called her 
Polly for a nickname — she’s heard down in Jo 
Daviess County, Kaintucky, that I warn’t dead, 
and she wrote me a letter sayin’ she was cornin’ to 
me as soon as she was able — for the news kinder 
upset her, and she always was one of the high- 
strung kind— and she’s goin’ to bring my boy— 
he’s named William, and that’s my name— but, ser- 
geant — ” 

Kaintuck seized the sergeant’s arm and gripped 
it hard. Meanwhile at the mention of Jo Daviess 
County the sergeant had turned a little pale, and 
he grew paler and paler as Kaintuck kept on. 

“ Sergeant, I read that letter. It was the duti- 


230 


MAID MARIAN. 


fulest letter a woman ever wrote. But — but — 
don’t you know a woman can marry a feller, an’ 
be dutiful an’ patient, an’ all the time her heart’s 
on fire an’ eatin’ itself away in grief ’cause she’s 
married the wrong feller?” He paused a mo- 
ment, and then broke out desperately : “ And 
that’s the way with Mary. She wasn’t but seven- 
teen when I married her. She was too young — 
she didn’t know. An’ here I am a mock an’ a 
misery. I ain’t fit to earn a livin’ for her. She’ll 
faint dead away when she sees this here.” He 
struck his disfigured face savagely, and did not 
wince with the pain. “ It’s better for her, an’ God 
knows it’s better for me to die. After I got that 
letter I felt sorter low. The doctors kem in an’ 
talked about my havin’ fluttering at the heart, an’ 
givin’ me brandy. Did you ever hear o’ brandy 
curing a broken heart ? Sergeant, I tell you I’ve 
got a blow worser’n that bullet that shot my jaw 
away. I didn’t mean never to let her know I was 
alive unless I got cured an’ made a man of again, 
and — and — ” Kaintuck dropped weakly down on 
the side of the bed. The sergeant then noticed 
that he was of a deathly color, and scarcely able 
to sit up, much less to stand. But the sergeant 
too wore a strange look, and his strong hands 
clinched behind his back were trembling. 

Kaintuck, fumbling in the breast of his butter- 
nut shirt, produced a little packet done up in 
white letter-paper, on which something was writ- 
ten, and took from it a tress of chestnut hair, soft 
and long. 


KAINTUCK. 


23I 


“ This writin’ is hers,” he said, with a curious 
accent of pride, “ and her hair is as long as this all 
over her head — and wavy.” 

The sergeant could not read the words because 
they danced before his eyes, but he knew the hand- 
writing, and on his own breast reposed a lock of 
hair that matched the one poor Kaintuck showed 
with such pride. Kaintuck, in the frenzy of his 
suppressed excitement, did not notice the ser- 
geant’s pallor and agitation. He was wrestling 
furiously and blindly with his fate. 

“Now don’t you see,” he asked, “why I don’t 
want her to come ? I ain’t got long to live. 
What’s the use o’ dragging her through it ? An’ I 
can tell you, sergeant, it would be a heap easier to 
die now than before I seen her an’ the boy.” 

The sergeant turned quietly and walked out of 
the room. He went down the corridor toward the 
window that overlooked the court-yard, where 
everything was black but for occasional patches of 
moonlight. The grief and horror with which he 
was overcome had an added sting of conscience. 
He was an unlettered man, and was not used to 
arguing morals with himself. He felt oppressed 
with guilt at allowing Kaintuck to go to his grave 
without knowing how things really were. But 
some instinctive common sense restrained him. It 
would only add a last cruelty of fate to tell him 
that he had been forgotten and supplanted ; and 
the sergeant, after looking at Kaintuck closely, 
had adopted the chaplain’s opinion that Kaintuck 
was not long for this world. He did not know how 


232 


MAID MARIAN. 


long he had stood at the window, when he became 
calmer, and returned along the corridor. The 
lamp was turned up in Kaintuck’s cell, and there 
were two or three men standing over the bed. 

“ Sinkin’ spells. Doctors workin’ with him,” 
sententiously remarked the guard to the sergeant, 
pausing a moment in his regular tramp. 

Every day after that the sergeant came to see 
Kaintuck, and every day Kaintuck’s face grew 
more pinched, and his eyes larger and more pa- 
thetic. The doctors first wheedled, then grew an- 
gry and scolded Kaintuck. Sometimes he would 
take the food and medicine prescribed for him, and 
again he would not ; but all the time he traveled 
steadily toward the grave. Occasionally he en- 
dured furious agonies of pain from his wounded 
jaw, which had suddenly grown violent again ; and 
following that he would lie for hours completely free 
from pain, and apparently entirely at peace. But 
the poor sergeant was never at peace. A trouble, 
a shade, that took the form of an accusing spirit, 
walked with him all day, and lay down by his side 
at night. And if Mary should come ! The ser- 
geant’s heart leaped up into his throat at the bare 
idea. Nevertheless he haunted the prison and 
Kaintuck’s cell, even when he was not on duty. 
One afternoon, when Kaintuck had been feebler 
than usual, sitting by his bed, something like atone- 
ment seemed possible to the sergeant. 

“ Kaintuck,” he said, “may be you’re troubled 
in your mind about that boy ? ” 

“I ought to be, but I ain’t,” answered Kain- 


KAINTUCK. 


233 


tuck, who shared the delusion of his class that all 
humanity should be troubled of many things, and 
should cherish grief and coddle sorrow. “ I say, 
sergeant, that ’ere little sheep-faced preacher has 
made me feel different about things. He sets 
there where you is settin’, an’ talks to me kinder 
manly. I ain’t never been converted ” — here he 
blushed — “but — but the chaplain he says ’tain’t 
how we feel so much as how we do. He says God 
will take keer of the child, and his mother too, an’ 
sergeant, I believe it.” 

The sergeant had a reverent, simple soul, and 
lifted his cap from his head as Kaintuck spoke 
God’s name. “ The chaplain’s right,” he said, put- 
ting his cap back ; “ and that there same little soft- 
spoken chaplain ain’t any more afraid of bullets 
than General Grant or General Lee. And I’ve 
been thinkin’ I’ll find that boy of yours, and I’ll 
do a good part by him.” 

Kaintuck’s eyes glistened. “You’ll have an 
orphan asylum soon,” he said, remembering that 
other boy the sergeant had told him he meant to 
provide for; at which the tall soldier felt his heart 
sink as with guilt and deception. Presently Kain- 
tuck said : 

“ I think I’ll go to sleep now, sergeant. What 
you said about lookin’ out for the boy has made 
me feel a heap quieter. Just have an eye to him 
and his mother once in a while ; an’, sergeant, I 
want him to grow up a honest man ; do you hear 
that ? — a honest man.” 

The sergeant went out of the room and down 


234 


MAID MARIAN. 


the jail corridor. No prisoner within its walls felt 
more sad and dispirited than he. Down the 
wooden stairs he went, and out the door. At the 
steps outside was a little one-roomed frame build- 
ing. In it at a table always sat a young officer, 
who examined the permits of the people who went 
in, and to whom the corporal of the guard re- 
ported. As the sergeant passed the open door of 
this little room he suddenly caught sight of a 
woman’s figure clothed in black, standing by the 
table. The officer, contrary to his custom, had 
risen from his chair, and stood respectfully. The 
sergeant could not have moved to save his life. 
He heard the young woman’s voice, as low and 
patient as Kaintuck’s : 

“ I thought, sir, that he was dead. I wouldn’t 
have forgot him or neglected him for anything. I 
came right away from home, ’way down in Jo Da- 
viess County, as soon as I could.” 

“You will find him very much changed, 
madam,” answered the young officer, as defer- 
entially as if the poor young country woman was 
the general’s wife. “ He has been well attended 
to, as he was a quiet and well-behaved prisoner, 
and the doctors have worked faithfully with him.” 

“I know, that, sir,” she replied. “Your men 
was very good to me when I was alone, and I 
thought my husband was dead, and I had nobody 
but my child. The cap’n looked out for me, 
though I was nothing but a poor woman, and — 
some others — ” 

She stopped suddenly, and the color stole into 


KAINTUCK. 


235 


her pallid cheeks, when, looking up, she saw the 
sergeant standing white and dazed-looking before 
her. She turned a brilliant red, and then, in an 
instant, the color dropped out of her face as the 
mercury drops down in the tube. The officer 
caught her and placed her in the chair from which 
he had risen. 

“ Mary,” cried the sergeant, coming forward 
and taking her hand, “ I didn’t know it no more 
than you did. Don’t look at me that way. Be- 
fore God, I never would have deceived you. You 
know I ain’t written you a line since I found this 
out less’n a week ago.” 

The young officer clapped his cap on his head 
and ran out, closing the door after him. He saw 
how it was in a moment. 

“ Mary,” said the sergeant again, after a pause, 
“ don’t you believe me ? ” 

“Yes, I believe you,” she answered, recovering 
herself a little and standing up. She looked so 
slight and pale in her black dress that the big ser- 
geant’s heart smote him with pity. “But I don’t 
think we can see each other any more. I ain’t for- 
getful. The only thing for me and him to do is to 
get back to Jo Daviess County, and for me to tend 
and nurse him faithful. That’s the only kind o’ 
peace I look for now. It’ll be hard on you, but 
men gets over these things better than women.” 

“ Do they ? ” cried the sergeant roughly and 
fiercely. “ Do they, I say ? I’ll get over mine by 
trying to get to the front all the time, and hopin’ 
some rebel bullet’ll end everything. For a man 


MAID MARIAN. 


236 

who loves another man’s wife has got no place on 
earth. He’s in hell already.” Her wide and 
frightened eyes caused the sergeant a pang of 
shame at his language and his violence. He hesi- 
tated a minute, and then said hurriedly : “ I ask 
your pardon. I ask your pardon for all. Good- 
by,” and strode out of the little room. 

But at the very door he came near running 
over the chaplain. The sergeant’s strange looks 
made the chaplain seize him by the arm, and then 
the tall man saw that the little man too was agi- 
tated. His mouth was twitching, and he looked 
quite shaken and nervous. 

“ Do you know Kaintuck is dead ? ” he said. 
“It was rather sudden at the last. I have just 
come from his room. He was a good, simple- 
hearted fellow, full of love for his wife and child. 
He had very strange eyes. They retained their 
brightness to the last.” 

“For God’s sake,” cried the sergeant, “his 
wife’s in there !” 

The door opened and she came out. She had 
not heard anything, and she was about to pass 
them both, holding her head down patiently and 
deprecatingly. Something in the chaplain’s face 
stopped her, though — and she recognized his cleri- 
cal attire. 

“If you please,” she said, “I’m — I’m going to 
my husband.” 

The chaplain took her hand and led her inside 
the prison door, while the sergeant walked rapidly 
out of the jail yard. 


KAINTUCK. 


237 


The widow with her child went back to Jo 
Daviess County. They would have fared hardly, 
but for some money that came every month ad- 
dressed to the child. The widow took it very 
thankfully, for they were poor and plain people, 
and when the sergeant had told her that he had 
promised poor Kaintuck to look out for the boy, 
she thought quite naturally and simply that “ look- 
ing out ” meant wherewith to feed and clothe the 
child. 

The sergeant did not turn up the next spring, 
but the spring after he came to Jo Daviess 
County. He was a sergeant still, and wore his 
worsted chevrons with a pride as honest as a 
major-general wears his stars. The little widow 
was not so pale and disheartened as she had been. 
The sergeant told her that he had got good quar- 
ters for her, and the boy could go to the company 
school, and that a non-commissioned officer’s wife 
had a good billet— to all of which the little woman 
agreed, and thought it a fine thing to be married 
to a great tall sergeant. And soon not only she 
and the sergeant quite forgot poor Kaintuck, but 
even the little boy grew up to think that the big 
kind sergeant was his only father. 


THE END. 














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Appletons’ Canadian Guide-Book. A Complete Hand-Book of In- 
formation concerning Eastern Canada and Newfoundland, including 
full Descriptions of Routes, Points of Interest, Summer Resorts, Fish- 
ing Places, etc. With Maps, numerous Illustrations, and an Appendix 
giving Fish and Game Laws, and Lessees of Trout and Salmon Rivers. 
By Charles G. D. Roberts. 12mo. Flexible cloth, $1.25. 

Appletons’ Hand-Book of American Summer Resorts. With 
Maps, Illustrations, and Table of Railroad Fares, etc. New edition, 
revised to date. Large 12mo. Paper, 50 cents. 

Appletons’ Dictionary of New York and its Vicinity. An Alpha- 
betically Arranged Index to all Places, Societies, Institutions, Amuse- 
ments, etc. With Maps. Revised edition, 1891 (thirteenth year). 
10 mo. Paper, 30 cents; flexible cloth, 60 cents. 

New York Illustrated. Containing One Hundred and Forty-three 
Illustrations of Street Scenes, Buildings, Rivet* Views, and other 
Picturesque Features of the Great Metropolis. With Maps. Large 
8vo. Paper, 50 cents. 

Appletons’ European Guide-Book. A Complete Guide for English- 
speaking Travelers to the Continent of Europe, Egypt, Algeria, and 
the Holy Land. With a Vocabulary of Travel-Talk in English, Ger- 
man, French, and Italian; a Hotel List, and “Specialties of European 
Cities”; Maps and Plans of Principal Cities; Information about 
Steamers, Passports, Expenses, Baggage, Custom-Houses, Couriers, 
Railway-Traveling, Valets de Place, Languages, Funds, Best Seasons 
for Visiting Europe, Table of Coins, etc. Two vols., 12mo. Morocco, 
flexible, gilt edges, $5.00. 

Skeleton Tours through England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Denmark, 
Norway, Sweden, Russia, Poland, and Spain, with cost of each trip for 
a party of four, etc. By Henry Winthrop Sargent. 18mo. Limp 
cloth, $1.00. 


For sale by a:l booksellers , or sent by mail on receipt of price by the publishers , 
D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York. 


























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